


Always A Fool

by indi_indecisive



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Men Crying, Smoking, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8056480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive
Summary: The Boss mentally scolded himself for thinking about Johnny, then proceeded to scold himself for not thinking about how utterly stupid the situation was. Alone and sharing a beer in his apartment with another gang leader. The simple fact that he was hiding his own leadership was fact enough he shouldn’t continue, but quickly became prideful. An action that Boss wanted to share with Johnny, but knew that he couldn’t. There were too many things that he wasn’t able to tell Johnny, it seemed.





	1. Meeting

The cool breeze brushed against warm brown cheeks, sending stray hair across his forehead and tickling the skin. The throbbing pain in his ankle forced him to lean heavily to the left. Fingers were wrapped around the cold bottle’s neck, the thumb and forefinger of his other hand currently attempting to open the can of cool, relieving soda. He struggled to open it, mouth pursed as teeth dug deep into the side of his cheek, ripping away flesh as he attempted to pop the soda can open. 

He was unsuccessful. Only raising the tab just barely with his thumb before it smashed back against the top of the can with a solid tink, the repeated action leaving the tip of his thumb sore and a crack in its nail. Another gust of wind ruffled the mop of brown hair, except for where his hair curled underneath the ears. The gust of wind brought him to the verge of tears. 

Tears stinging the corner of his eyes, almost as much as his ankle stung from the light amount of pressure he was currently applying to it. Running away from a certain lieutenant of his, he still couldn’t believe the oddment of Saints was his, hadn’t exactly helped the newly acquired injury. 

He also supposed that taking a trip to the store instead of resting on the couch; mindlessly flipping through Stilwater’s local channels, or studying the amount of work that had begun piling up in the recent days, or even taking care of the more important issues that littered themselves in the wake of the Saints revival. Going to the store for a drink was not the best option out of any. Except for The Boss, at least he was able to get a drink other than beer. The simple fact that he couldn’t open the particularly sugary brand of soda to quench a misdirected thirst seemed to be the breaking point. 

He sniffled. 

The Boss may not have noticed anything beyond his drink with tear-blurred vision had he not raised a hand to wipe the tears away. When looking up, his eyes shining with pathetic aquamarine tears, locked with dark brown eyes that showed a clear regret in ever noticing the man on the street corner. Breath caught in his throat, an imagined lump formed somewhere in his chest, making it hard to swallow and difficult to breath. More tears threatened to spill from his eyes as their eye contact did not break. 

The colors of the Ronin decorated both the bike and body of the man, hard to miss unless you were blind, and The Boss was not blind. The opposing man armed with a sword, dressed fair better than himself. The Boss was leaning heavily on his left, wearing a white-tee covered in tree sap, grass stains, and what appeared to be the pink splotches of either a strawberry milkshake or poorly cleaned bloodstains. The pink splotches were actually a strawberry milkshake, everything else decorating his shirt could easily be explained by the throbbing pain of his ankle, and The Boss became uncomfortably aware that the street-light had changed to green and the man in yellow and black had yet to drive off, and that the man had likely watched him cry over the inability to open a soda can. 

Without a second though The Boss extended the soda toward the man, softness in his near-radioactive-green cat eyes that were bright and clear in intention. Innocent eyes, even. “Could you open this?”

The man dressed in yellow and black, sitting stiff on his bike not that he was pulled into conversation, seemed to hesitate. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to insult the slob before him, the man with very odd eyes and hair fluffier than anything he had seen before. It was a brown mess that curled and twisted in directions with no conscious pattern, but not exactly a mess, and brown eyes lingered as a breath of wind shifted The Boss’s hair. The man in yellow caught himself from becoming lost in it. 

“Why?” The stranger’s voice was busy, words spoken with a sharpness that suggested he had more important things to do. 

The Boss didn’t doubt it, he’s read and learned information a thousand times about the man before him. Of course, there was nothing that deterred The Boss from asking help from Shogo Akuji. 

“I--I can’t open it. Please.” A low strung whine, desperately pushing out his bottom lip into a poud. The Boss sounded and looked to be on the verge of crying. Those things made a twitch of Shogo’s lips, something between a frown and a disgusted smirk. “Please help me.” The Boss repeated. 

“Are you sure you’d want to owe me a favor?” The words were said with the expectancy of his name to be know, The Boss doubted that anyone couldn’t identify the spiky-haired leader of the Ronin, whose hands moved backwards and fingers curled around the handle of the single katana on his back. The blade was freed quickly, fear gripped The Boss’s chest, but his day had been littered with enough fear and uncertainty that he did nothing but continue to hold out his drink to Shogo. 

“It can’t be too bad owing you a favor.” As long as I get my drink, The Boss figured. His surprise couldn't be masked when Shogo laughed, nor when he discovered that he liked it. The Boss liked the laugh, it was boisterous and arrogant. 

“Is that so?” The question sent a shiver along his spine, chasing away the cold fret that Johnny had embedded into his heart. Of course. He knew that he had fucked up, but the others laughter chased it away. 

The Boss was fucking up again, but nothing was there to stop the pure shock of amazement on his face as the katana blade swung, cutting the top of the soda can off cleanly. The Boss had felt the kiss of air against his nose and freckle-peppered cheeks, heard the clattering of the tin fall half onto the concrete and half onto the tips of his boots. 

A bit of soda splashed onto his hand, it was sticky and cold, but The Boss didn’t mind. The only thing that left his throat was barely above a whisper, “Holy shit.”

It earned The Boss an amused twitch of Shogo’s lips. Eyes flickered along the taunting curve, his focus was so intense that he didn't notice Shogo’s eyes had stayed lock to his own odd ones. Something that may have bothered him had he payed attention, had his mother not filled his head with why he was special, had Johnny not--. The Boss did not want to think of Johnny Gat right now. 

Shogo’s lips became a welcomed distraction. The blade was returned to its sheath on Shogo’s back, and the man seemed prepared to drive away now that he had collected a favor from a random citizen of Stilwater. A random near-teared stranger, not that Shogo cared. 

“Wait--” The Boss didn’t hear himself as he took a step forwards, his thirst completely forgotten that it was a surprise he had yet to drop the soda. 

Shogo lowered a foot to steady himself on the bike, raising a brow. 

“Do you think--. I hurt my foot,” he winced for emphasis, raising the hurt foot an inch or two off the ground and gave it a little wiggle.”Could you take me home?” He’s greeted by a stare that suggested he had just asked Shogo for his kidney, though The Boss did not drink enough to earn himself a damaged one. 

He became certain that his request had been denied by how long it was taking for Shogo to respond to him, lowering his foot dejectedly. Eyes fell to his soda, looking at the cleanly sliced top. 

“Get on.”  
The soda had become all but wanted. The Boss throwing his gaze around, much like a cornered dog facing animal control, seeking out a trash can to toss it in. In any other circumstance, The Boss would have appreciated a cool drink while being driven home, slumped comfortably back within the seat of a car, his gaze cast out to lazily watch the streets and buildings pass by in a quick haze of often mirthful chit-chat or explosions. Alas, it was not a car, but a motorcycle. 

The Boss had not admitted it but he was unsettled when on motorcycles, and while the fear had never prevented him from riding, he knew that he would not be able to hold a drink and stay seated. In the end it came to one or the other, a pretty gang leader he should avoid or a sticky sugary drink; a distraction or bingeing. There was not a trash can in sight, actually there was one across the street but getting to it required moving past Shogo, and The Boss settled on setting the can of mostly full soda onto a bench. He felt Shogo’s eyes on him the entire time, giving another shiver along his spine as he walked closer. 

“I think I owe you twice now.” The Boss chided. Now that he was closer to Shogo, the other could see the glint of silver in The Boss’ mouth as he spoke. The Boss noticed the way Shogo’ eyes flickered to his lips. An honest smile formed as he got onto the motorcycle. 

“Not that wise of you, is it?” Shogo questioned but did not kick him off or shrug away the arms that slipped easily around his waist as The Boss finally got on. The light was red, but Shogo drove on anyways. “Don’t you know who I am?” Shogo sounded almost offended, but rather than being frightened or nervous about his own identity, The Boss laughed. A loud, very free laughter, his arms tightening around the others waist as the motorcycle moved faster.

He was not scared. Not at all. 

“I know exactly who you are.” It’s not like I’ve been in a coma. The Boss could feel Shogo’s chest puffing with pride, he was an intoxicating arrogance that was becoming adored. 

The Boss didn’t want to move an inch while on the motorcycle, closing his eyes as he leaned closer. His chest pressing against Shogo’s back. Completely invasive, but The Boss didn’t usually care. “Take the upcoming left. My apartment is on the right.” As the bike began to slow for a turn, he became aware of exactly how tightly his fingers were digging into the man’s shirt, and he became worried that he may have torn it. 

Now they were outside of The Boss’ apartment. The dingy little place that he had stayed in purely by sentiment, and not because he feared his mother seeing him return home with stitches and bruises. 

There was a hesitant second where he did not want to remove himself from the bike, utterly obvious to both of them, as The Boss loosened the hold that had been around Shogo’s waist. Though he did not pull back completely, his chest still pressed against the others back. The Boss was tall and limber enough that it was hardly a stretch for him to keep the contact, let alone do anything. Craning his neck, he gave a gentle nip to an earlobe, feeling the shorter man stiffen and shiver.

“Shit. What are you doing?”

“Would you like to come upstairs?” The Boss’ voice was far too happy and innocent for the suggestive nip he had given. Pulling away, he slipped off the bike, those near-radioactive-green cat eyes returned to staring into the deep brown ones of Shogo. 

He is doing this on purpose, Shogo thought, there was no way anyone could be sweet after the way he had been touched-- marked. The touch had left yearning. Where the Boss’ arms had been there was nothing but gooseflesh, annoying to Shogo, which he insisted to be rid of quickly. He wasn’t sure how to rid them, as it seemed utterly silly and childish to think that being touched again would satisfy his body. The stranger wasn’t cocaine. 

“Yeah, you’d invite me into your apartment? Knowing exactly who I am?” Shogo cocked his head to the side, placing his heel onto the sidewalk curb in order to keep himself and the bike balanced. An action that he had definitely not done in order to make himself look impressive. 

“You drove me home, did you not?” The Boss hummed, the pain of his ankle becoming a dull thudding reminder. “I’ve got a few beers in the fridge,” I don’t think Johnny drank them all. He didn’t want to think about Johnny. “We can have a few. Maybe even watch a movie? I picked up those one yesterday, I’ve been meaning to watch it for ages, but I’ve just been busy.” His excitement bubbled, becoming intoxicating, The Boss ended up bouncing lightly on his heels despite the minor ankle injury.

Shogo silently lowered the kickstand as he listened. A few beers would be nice, especially free beer. 

“You wouldn’t even have to count the beer as a favor. Just two guy havin’ fun.” Again he shuffled his feet, eyes downcast during the moment Shogo removed himself from the bike.

“Fine.”

“Wait-- really?”

“Try not to push it.” Shogo’s words fall upon deaf ears as The Boss struck out and grabbed his hand with far more precision and skill than expected. Beginning to pull him towards the apartment building door, its brown paint peeling to reveal another layer of a discolored shade of brown beneath. Shogo hoped that he wouldn’t carry bedbugs or ticks home, annoying creatures that he’d have to rid himself of. Wasting his time on debugging. 

“Seems unfair,” Shogo began as he was lead up the stairs, “that you know me, but I don’t know you.” How many stairs are they going to climb? While Shogo wasn’t unfit, the building was hot. He preferred to not sweat. 

The Boss stopped at a second junction where stairs become a floor and then immediately more stairs. Turning on his heel to face Shogo, much to the displeasure of his ankle, giving a wince that did not go unnoticed to either set of ears. Shogo found he hated having to look up at the giant. 

“My name is Jaimie Lian. Is that enough or would you like my ATM pin number, too?” The Boss gave a wide grin, then gave Shogo’s wrist another tug. “Come on, my apartment is down here.”

“Jaimie--” Shogo was already being tugged down the hallway, feet almost tripping out from underneath him at how quick and strong Jaimie was. Impressive, in a strange way. Being lead down the hallway, Shogo watched the numbers dwindle down on each passing door. 

The walk was short, they stood outside of Jaimie Lian’s supposed apartment, together staring at the peeling paint and unusually shiny door handle. Jaimie pushed it open, and Shogo audibly snorted at the fact the man had not locked the door. 

“You always keep that door unlocked?” The comment was snide, harsher than Shogo may have originally intended. If Jaimie had noticed the harshness, he did not show it, his face unwavering of its smile as he ushered the shorter man into the apartment.

“Wouldn’t mind keeping the door unlocked if folk like you walked in, usually I do keep it locked. I only meant to step out for a drink, I’d have been back in ten. Twenty, given the ankle.”

The room, assumed to be the living room, was littered with an odd collection of odds and ends. Shogo certainly thought he had spotted a few military grade knives piled away into a corner, somewhere among the boxes that he assumed to be filled with books and clothing. There was the glimpse of a gun here and there, but he thought little of it, considering the area that the apartment was located. It would have been insane in Jaimie didn’t have something to defend himself with, even if it felt like he could throw a good punch. There were rags, perhaps clothes as well, that had the appearance they had once been folded neatly until they were tossed into a box and forgotten for another day. The only furniture was a chocolate colored couch, a T.V he’d say was too expensive, and a reading chair shoved near the window. It was not a cluttered apartment, rather it was disorganized. 

“People like me?” Shogo carefully removed the sword from his back, letting his eyes scan the area for a suitable place to store it, deciding to rest it against the other side of the couch. Then he situated himself on the chocolate covered sofa, wrinkling his nose at the stale air. As if someone had locked the apartment up for five years and just recently opened it to the public.

“Attractive people.” Jaimie responded.

“Going to bring me some beer anytime soon, Jaimie?” Shogo reached into his pocket, grabbing at the nearly full package of cigarettes. He lit one before the stale air got to him, taking a deep drag, and enjoying the smoke as it filled his lungs. He exhaled slowly, watching the grey smoke curl about, unconcerned that he had not asked permission to smoke in the others home. Tossing his head back to Jaimie, he watched the man fidget with something hidden in a cardboard box. “Hey Jaimie.”

Jaimie snapped his attention back to Shogo. “Yeah?”

“Beer.”

With a small bop of his chin as a response, Jaimi moved with long and graceful strides back further into the apartment. Shogo listened to a fridge being opened, hearing a few glasses clink together. He hoped that it wasn’t the beer, clinking did nothing but make it foamy. 

“Want a bottle or can?” Jaimie called out to him, Shogo taking a long drag of his cigarette before giving back a response.

“Bottle.”

Hearing the fridge shut and the gentle tap of two bottles, Shogo kept his gaze steady on the powered off T.V, making sure that he did not turn around and appear eager. Another drag of his cigarette was accompanied by Jaimie sitting down besides him onto the couch. Very close besides him, their thighs touching, Shogo instinctively moving an arm to rest on the back of the couch behind Jaimie. Not because he was making a move, the action was comfortable. 

“Open that beer for me, will you Jaimie?” Shogo took another drag of his cigarette. It was little less than a nub now, carefully blowing the smoke away from Jaimie’s face. 

Jaimie gave a slight shrug, nudging his knee with Shogo’s. “Lazy, huh?” He teased, utterly oblivious or ignoring the rudeness of the other. Jaimie opened both beer bottles quickly, placing his own claimed beer between his legs, and offered the other to Shogo. 

Shogo jiggled his dying cigarette, the ash unceremoniously falling to the floor. “Have an ashtray laying around, Jaimie? I need to put this out before I can drink.”

“Nah. Just use the couch's arm.” Jaimie idly suggested, patiently holding out the beer bottle. He flinched slightly when Shogo jammed the cigarette against the couch’s arm, the smell of singed fabric masked by the pungent smell of cigarette smoke. 

Jaimie worried that Johnny would begin thinking that he’s taken up smoking, only because he cared greatly for the man’s opinion, even if he was currently upset with him. Jaimie mentally scolded himself for thinking about Johnny, then proceeded to scold himself for not thinking about how utterly stupid the situation was. Alone and sharing a beer in his apartment with another gang leader. The simple fact that he was hiding his own leadership was fact enough he shouldn’t continue, but quickly became prideful. An action that Jaimie wanted to share with Johnny, but knew that he couldn’t. There were too many things that he wasn’t able to tell Johnny, it seemed. 

Jaimie handed Shogo the beer, their fingers brush together for just a second, and once more Shogo found his arm to be gooseflesh. He watched with eagerness as Jaimie’s fingers curled around the beer bottles neck in his lap, obvious to what he was alluding to, those odd eyes of his staring right back into Shogo’s. Basically staring through his anatomy, uncovering every inch of his body, utterly exposed. 

Shogo distracted himself by taking a sip of the beer. Cold, tangy, with little foam to coat his lips or fizz on the inside of his cheeks. He spared a glance in the others direction, watching as Jaimie tilted his head back to drink, the fluff of brain hair barely registered the action. He spent a moment trying to justify his starring, as to why he noticed the dusting of freckles on his skin, or the way a tuft of hair curled itself under his ears, or how as he drank Haimie side-eyed Shogo and caught him in the middle of his observations. 

Shogo had half a mind to ask about the movie that Jaimie had wanted to watch but could never find the time to do so when the man suddenly moved off the couch and situated himself on his knees in front of him. Instead of speaking, he cocked a brow, bringing the bottle to his lips and spreading open his legs. One knee hit the couch’s arm, the other was greeted by Jaimie’s hand spreading it farther.

The look in Jaimie’s eye was so intense that Shogo couldn’t hold it, focusing instead on the fingers that were undoing the buckle of his belt, and then the button to his jeans. Jaimie pulled, tugged his pants down, actions reminiscent of a dying man in the desert receiving water. Shogo helped only a little, raising his hips just barely enough to ease the process. He took another drink, wishing that his pants weren't pooled around his ankles so he could have a smoke. 

“Not your first, Jaimie?” Shogo said while Jaimie pressed his face against his crotch, which was clothed only by thin yellow boxers. Shogo’s cock was half hard, twitching at the cheek and the warm breath against his cock through fabric. 

Jaimie responded by mouthing him through the yellow fabric, planting kisses along the growing erection. The smirk on his lips betrayed any sense of innocence in his eyes, as did the darkening spot of precum staining Shogo’s boxers, and Jaimie’s own tented erection. 

Shogo’s cock was hard against his own better judgement, and he became uncomfortably aware of how tightly he was holding onto the beer bottle. 

His skin was on fire. His shirt had become a constricting prison. Shogo taking long swigs of beer in order to push those feelings away, watching as Jaimie freed his cock from his boxers. Precum beaded at the head, Jaimie’s tongue slipped out between his lips, licking slowly along the slit, and once again Shogo caught a glint of silver as he shivered. 

Jaimie wrapped a hand around the base of Shogo’s cock as he opened his mouth, utterly lewd about every action, putting his lips around his stiff member. Very soft lips, and a warm and wet mouth. Shogo' cock was more than enough to pull tears from the corner of Jaimie’s eyes, but the man hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard. His soft mouth and the hard pressure of his stud sent a spasm of pleasure along Shogo’s spine, a low groan silenced by another sip of alcohol.

Jaimie’s hands found a new position on Shogo’s thighs, his eyes fluttering closed as he began bobbing his head to a steady rhythm. He didn’t dare open his eyes, knowing that when he opened them, it was not going to be the man that he wanted. Not the man he wanted and not the man that his cock ached for, though he could imagine that the salty taste of precum and dick was the same. That it was Johnny’s thick, eight inch cock being shoved down his throat. Jaimie’s nose pressed against Shogo’s pubes as he took his cock fully into his mouth. 

Shogo thrusted upwards, balls tightening at the rough and warm sensation enveloping him, overloading his sense of touch as Jaimie’s tongue swirled along his head or ran along the underside of his member. He thrusted forwards, Jaimie’s eyes snapped open and meeting Shogo’s gaze.

Shogo’s grip on the empty beer bottle faltered, the bottle clattering to the ground but it did not shatter. His hand immediately found a new grip in the fluff of Jaimie’s soft brown hair, pulling him away. Jaimie’s lips left his cock with a soft pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips and the head of his member. Shogo studied him, eyes his swollen lips from sucking him like a whore, the heaviness of his eyelids, and how his erection was painfully trapped in his jeans. 

The low whine Jaimie gave made it seem like Shogo’s cock was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“Touch yourself.” Shogo demanded in a low growl, keeping his fingers curled in his brown hair. His balls were heavy, but he was making sure Jaimie didn’t finish him. Not in his mouth, at least. 

“Let me--”

“Come on, Jaimie. You can possible enjoy this with you dick not being touched. Go on, Jaimie, touch yourself.” He cooed, everything spoke with a low drawl of disinterest. He wanted a cigarette. The hand that was not occupied in gripping hair moved to his cock, lazily stroking himself to keep hard, and to keep his balls tight and heavy. He watched Jaimie quickly unbutton and free his own pained erection. His cock was nice, proportional to how tall he was, long and nicely thick. Shogo even caught glimpses of curled pubic hair. 

It all kept him hard.

Jaimie squirmed under the staring, becoming impossibly hard, a hand going around his cock and stroking. He shivered, mouth agape, wishing for more than a hand. “Cover my face.” Jaimie demanded, rocking his hips forward as he created a steady rhythm, odd eyes staring up too innocently at Shogo that he wanted to smack him. Jaimie felt the grip of his hair tighten, it earned a groan from his lips as he fucked his hand. 

“What? You want that, Jaimie? Want me to cover you like a slut?”

More, more. Oh god, he wanted more. Jaimie’s eyes snapped shut, listening to insults and the slap of jacking off alike. “Come on me.” His breath hitched in his throat, chest tightening, the strokes on his cock become faster as was his thrusting. “Please, please come on my face, Shogo!”

“Fuck-- You’re fucked up, Jaimie. Fuck.”

Jaimie wanted it to be Johnny. He wanted to have Johnny’s cum on his face and in his hair, coating his lips like a fine sugar. He wanted Johnny to make him feel like a lover, and not some disgusting and cheap slut. God, he wanted to be Johnny’s boy. Except he’s Shogo’s boy, because he’s never had Johnny’s cock before, hasn’t tasted him like he has with Shogo. Jaimie can imagine he’s tasting Johnny. 

The more he thought about Johnny Gat, the more erratic his hand fucking became. He came into his hand with a whimper of a name in his mouth. Johnny, oh Johnny. 

Shogo wasn’t able to make out the name, but he thought that it was his own. The semen that leaked through Jaimie’s hand was unquestionably humiliatingly hot. “Fuck, oh fuck. Fuck!”

Shogo’s own strokes became faster, the other hand intertwined with his hair moved Jaimie’s face closer to the head of his cock. Shogo tilted his head back, mouth gaping. He comes loudly, allowing himself to be loud in a strange apartment, semen spreading across Jaimie’s forehead, cheeks, his lips, and even getting into his hair. 

Shogo couldn’t deny how hot the scene was. Made his cock twitch again.

Jaimie felt sticky. There was semen in his lashes, and he didn’t want to blink. Cum was everywhere, far too much, he didn’t know if it was Shogo or his own fault for the amount.

When was the last time he’d jacked off? It must have been at least a week for Jaimie, though he wasn’t capable of answering for Shogo. 

They came off of the high of pleasure together, slowly being able to piece themselves together. Jaimie and Shogo staring at each other, their heavy breathing turning into panting, and then finally to a normal and steadier rhythm. Shogo slowly released his hold of Jaimie’s hair, pushing him back with his foot. Jaimie fell from his knees onto his ass, watching with those innocently wide eyes as Shogo rose from the couch and put his cock back into his boxers, then pulled his pants up. He watched Shogo reach into his pocket and pull out his packet of cigarettes, giving a little shake in Jaimie’s direction to offer him one. 

“I don’t smoke.”

Shogo snorted. “Don’t smoke, but you’ll put a cock in your mouth.”

“Cock doesn’t burn my lungs like smoke does. Usually that’s the air deprivation.” Jaimie grinned, which looked utterly ridiculous due to Shogo’s spunk, and his own, drying all over him. Realizing that his cock was still hanging out, Jaimie put his pants back on properly as Shogo lit a cigarette.

“You’re not a bad lay, Jaimie.” Shogo commented, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Jaimie watched the end of it glow a dull red, it was almost mesmerizing. 

“Hope that means this isn’t going to be a one time thing.” Jaimie doesn’t considered it a lay. He knows that this wasn’t a lay. Knew by the way he wanted to have his ass pounded into oblivion. “As much as I liked giving you a blowjob, I would have like to be fucked.”

Jaimie batted his eyelashes, and Shogo puffed smoke down in an attempt to get it into his face. “Going to clean up or you keeping that as a souvenir?” There was a low purr, something that could have been considered affection in the tone of Shogo’s voice. Jaimie liked it, whatever he had heard, and rose from the floor. 

Once more he towered over Shogo, looking down at him with puffy and swollen lips pulled to a smile. “If I can’t have you again, maybe. You’re gorgeous.” He’s not sure why he’s saying it at all. “I still want to watch that movie with you.”

“Think I have any time for you, Jaimie? I run a gang, you know. Don’t expect me to focus on some random boy who gave a decent blowjob.”

I run one too. Jaimie bit the comment back with a slight shrug. “I know what you do. Illegal gambling and prostitutes sound way better than me.”

“They make me money, you don’t. You make me a mess.” A puff of cigarette smoke was blown upwards, Shogo’s lips curled into an arrogant smile. “You’re Asain, aren’t you Jaimie? You could join the Ronin, then I’d have more time for you. If you’re worth it, you may just die.”

“Yeah, Chinese, somethin’ else in there, too. Let me ask my mom, see if she’ll let me join a gang.” The grin he gave showed teeth. Teeth as white as the dried spunk, if not whiter.

Shogo snorted, rolling his eyes, taking another drag of his cigarette. He was done with it, reaching behind him to snuff it on the couch arm. Poor couch. “Clean yourself up, Jaimie. You’re only making my cock twitch looking at you. Can’t take a single word seriously.” There was a part of Shogo that hoped he couldn’t get the semen out of his hair for a couple days, wanted the kid to walk around and remember this. That in a way, he’d been claimed. Shogo couldn’t tell if he thought him a whore or not. 

Giving Jaimie a final look over, his eyes lazily trailing along the tall figure, his lips curled slightly at how tall the man was. He didn’t look scrawny, had the muscle, and a bit of chub around his midsection, but that was it. He caught those near-radioactive-green cat eyes with lashes speckled in semen.

Shogo was taken back when Jaimie lowered himself, planting a kiss to his cheek, getting a bit of spunk on him during the action. He raised a hand, quickly pushing Jaimie away, watching as Jaimie stumbled back a few paces. He looked hurt, pouting, and Shogo almost regretted it. 

Almost.

“See you around, Shogo.” Jaimie’s pout stayed firmly on his face, unwavering. “May need to clean your cheek. Got a bit of yourself there.” It seemed he no longer cared if Shogo left at all or if he took anything. Jaimie was moving with strange grace to where the bathroom was further into the apartment. 

Shogo stood in place for several long moments, waiting until he heard the sounds of running water, telltale signs that a shower had been started. Finally, he turned and grab the sword, putting it back to its place on his back, fingers expertly adjusting where it was needed. He took one final look around the apartment, having not deciding if it was going to be the last time he saw it or not, the sounds of a shower the only friend to his thoughts. He lit another cigarette before leaving, taking a few long drags and puffing smoke into the room lazily through his nose, then left the apartment.

 

Jaimie diligently washed his hair thoroughly with a brand of shampoo he thought to be at least five years old, as he didn’t believe that anyone would have showered here in his absence and replace it. Mother didn’t even know about the apartment. Johnny, maybe, standing naked. Still, the shampoo smelled like peppermint and lemongrass, bubbling perfectly as he scrubbed, and so Jaimie used it. 

Jaimie scrubbed his body clean of spunk, then curled his fingers around his cock. He thought about the man that made him hate how much he wanted him, about Johnny taking a shower and running his hands all over his wet, soapy body. Closing his odd eyes, he let the water massage the scar tissue on his back, moaning loudly his name. 

“Johnny.”


	2. Sleepover

Those strange green eyes watched the gentle rise and fall of a pale familiar chest, biting onto his bottom lip in order to stop a sigh from escaping and disturbing the sleeping man. The pain in his ankle had long since subsided, but the pain in his ass nor his heart had not. Mainly his ass, as Jaimie was positive his hips and glutes were going to be bruised for years, and there was little joy to be found in the thought of being kept up later in the week because of being fucked. 

Jaimie rolled onto his back, careful as to not tug the covers, letting his hand fall heavily onto his chest. Not as heavy as the guilt, fingertips digging into the skin of his chest, the touch hot. He had half the mind to rip apart his flesh, while the other part of his mind began berating him for not stopping this sooner. Again, Jaimie held in a groan, finding no respite in any of his thoughts. A pinprick of tears threatened to spill from his eyes, moments away from sobbing until an arm draped across his waist and pulled him closer. 

Tension. 

Jaimie’s breathing stopped, lungs feeling as if they were going to explode as the seconds ticked by. Near radioactive eyes flickered to Shogo, he’s capable of breathing again when seeing the man was still asleep. Of course. He can’t stop himself from interlocking their fingers, finding that Shogo wasn’t as burning hot as he himself was. Shogo was callous and cold, and he was an assortment of other things that Jaimie loved but knew he shouldn’t. 

It’s been about a month, Jaimie reminded himself of every little event of the month as his gaze returned to the ceiling, beginning to count every little imperfection he can find in the plaster. 

A month since he’s sucked the leader of the Ronin off. A month since he began wandering aimlessly around Stilwater, alone, and avoiding Johnny Gat to the best of his abilities. They hadn’t been to Freckle Bitch’s in weeks, their last meal together ending with Jaimie ruining the interior of Johnny’s personal vehicle with a strawberry milkshake. Spending every waking moment wishing that he never ran into Shogo again, and then every sleeping moment hoping that what he wished wouldn’t ever happen. 

His wishing wasn’t as strong as his hoping, apparently. By the end of the month, Jaimie had managed to weasel a presence in the Ronin hideout. Being lead with a hand on the square of his back, shown around the luxurious and unimportant rooms, as if he were some expensive whore Shogo was trying to impress. Maybe he was.

Sometimes Jaimie felt like a whore, on his back while Shogo relentlessly pounded into him, legs wrapped around the other to pull him closer and find that angle. All the while he moaned, gasped, and squirmed. There was something about the way Jaimie squirmed beneath him that made Shogo ecstatic. Sloppy, cocky, and all too pleased with himself. 

Jaimie loved it, maybe that is why he kept going back. He was in love, but in truth he didn’t think this was how love felt. Jaimie knew that he loved Johnny, but the aforementioned man made him feel bad, and Shogo made him feel like a whore. 

It was too much to think about. Jaimie screwed his eyes shut, hoping that in the darkness he could trick himself to sleep.

Giving Shogo’s hand a squeeze, he immediately regretted it when the man stirred. Jaimie opened his eyes again, giving a little sigh of disgust, disguising it by a late-afternoon yawn. 

Shogo blinked lazily, adjusting to the waking word. It was bound to be the afternoon, he’d have been awake hours ago, but sex and beer made an excellent narcotic. “Still here?” He groaned, nails digging into Jaimie’s chest, leaving four crescent dents. Jaimie released his hand, moving his own to rest on the other side of his body, fingers picking at the soft sheets. 

“You drove me here.” Jaimie pointed out, picking at the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. “I couldn’t just leave. It’d be a long walk home, you know?” Flickering his gaze over, he raised a brow as Shogo sat up and stretched. Still, he watched. 

There was a moment where he hated what he saw, just how he hated how he saw Johnny. Incredibly attractive, deadly. Everything that he should have been as both a man and leader.

“You could have walked.” He commented, rolling his shoulders. There’s a soft pop, and Jaimie gives him a gentle shove. There was no strength behind it, but Shogo shifted an inch or two across the bed. “Careful.” Shogo threw a leg over the bed, then another, and unintentionally gave Jaimie a nice view of his ass.

“Ankle still hurts.” Jaimie pushed himself up, using his elbows to keep himself steady. He let his gaze trail slowly along Shogo’s backside, lips quirked with pride in seeing the scratch-marks. The red lines were gone, leaving just a few half crescent dents in his skin where Jaimie had clung the night before. Nonetheless, he was proud of them. 

“Still hurting after a month? Shit, that’s a weak ass ankle.” There was something similiar to concern in Shogos’ voice, the way he spared a quick glance backwards. Perhaps he wanted Jaimie dressed and out, there was nothing to say he cared. Shogo was already retrieving a fresh set of clothing, and the idea of putting on clothing and leaving left Jaimie disappointed. 

Jaimie pushed himself up into a complete sitting position, bringing his knees up against his chest, and wrapping his arms around his legs. He liked the sheets, he decided. They were comfortable, no holes form what he could see, and they didn’t even slide off when he moved! Resting his chin on his knees, he looked about the room for the clothes he had haphazardly tossed around the night before. The outline of his phone in his jeans pocket left him sick, the pants strewn closer to the bed than any other article of clothing. 

Hatred violently churned his stomach, knowing that there were going to be countless missed calls and texts. Most of them will be from Pierce, and Jaimie decided he’d send him an apologetic selfie once he’s showered and home. Just to let him know he’s alright and not dead in a ditch. 

Everything would probably be better if he was dead in a ditch. 

It occurred to Jaimie that he hadn’t responded when a puff was smoke was blown into his face. Nose scrunched, he closed his eyes against the musty, acrid, and most of all overpowering smell. Couldn’t help but wonder why Shogos’ mouth tasted more like alcohol than it did an ashtray. Jaimies’ licked an ashtray before, but Shogo never tasted like one. He needed a shower.

“Still with me, Jaimie?” Another puff of smoke, but at least it wasn’t in Jaimie’s face, and he finally opens his eyes.

How did Shogo get a cigarette that fast?

“Yeah. Just thinking that I knew this wasn’ going to be a one time thing. I was right.”

Shogo was by the bedside, an ashtray on the night table. It seemed more of an excuse to be closer, although he wouldn’t admit it, as Shogo let the cigarette ashes fall into the ashtray. The ashtray was a cute little thing made of glass and shaped to be a dragon.

Jaimie watched, waiting a response. Shogo rested a hand against Jaimie’s back, giving him a few light smacks. Nice sounding, Shogos’ lips curled into a grin. He found Jaimie cute, especially when his skin was bruised from kissing and their fucking. “Get dressed, I’ve got enough time to take you home.” The day was already wasted, he may as well take the kid home. 

“Can we take a car this time? As much as I like those yellow bikes, my ass probably couldn’t handle the ride.” It was easy to lie, Jaimie was afraid of some Saint seeing him on a Ronin bike and then start talking. They always talked about what he did, as if his everything about his personal life concerned them. This may have, but not the debate on if it meant anything when Jaimie had a fruit cup for lunch rather than Freckle Bitch’s with Johnny. He couldn’t even blame them for it. He’d basically risen from the dead, awoke to find Troy and Dex had gone and supposedly betrayed them, and in the aftermath of all that shit he was the damn leader. 

Jaimie could have laughed at how the last thing he worried over before being Playa, let alone The Boss, had involved struggling with algebra. 

“I’ll think about it. Wouldn’t mind hearing you groan.” Shogo took a long drag from his cigarette, the slightest quirk of his lips as he thought about it. Amusing how much he wanted to take Jaimie again, fucking him until he could barely walk let alone handle a car ride. Shogo trailed his hand along Jaimie’s form, touch featherlight from the back to his collarbone. Fingers tapped gently against a kiss bruise he had left, and then he took a tight hold of Jaimie’s chin.

Jaimie shivered, looking up at Shogo, defiantly wiggling his jaw in the others grasp. Watching Shogo bend, Jaimie stretched upwards, capturing his lips into a chaste kiss. 

It’s been a month, and Jaimie couldn’t imagine that he would like a man as arrogant and full of himself as Shogo. Let alone think that it was love, but here he was. 

It was Shogo who pulled away, giving a final squeeze to Jaimie’s jaw. “Hurry and dress.” he commanded, then left for the bathroom. The most logical and only place to keep the amount of hair-care products Jaimie knew Shogo to have. He’ll be locked away for twenty minutes, maybe more, and Jaimie didn’t make a move from the bed until Shogos’ footsteps faded then stopped. 

Groaning, Jaimie buried his face into his blanketed knees. Breathing heavily, on the verge of tears from everything that he shouldn’t be thinking of here. Shogo, Johnny Gat, The Ronin, The Saints. It all shouldn’t have mattered, trying desperately to convince himself that in the end none of it would matter, that he would be capable of keeping everything separated from one another. Johnny would never know about Shogo, and vice versa. 

His heavy breathing turned into muffled sobs. He knew that nothing would work out, but at least he could stay hopeful. Maybe it would.

Eventually, Jaimie convinced himself that enough was enough, and he was finally able to bring himself to move from the bed. Once he was standing, he stretched, arching his back and wincing. “Oh, fuck, Shogo.” Words hissed between teeth, hands placed on either side of his hips to half twist and take a peek at his backside. Blooming fingerprints on his hips and ass, the markings of an utterly sore body. Rubbing his cheeks for a moment, with hands that were too warm soon making the action unpleasant. 

Then he dressed. Wandering around the room in search of all of his clothing. Boxers and pants were put on first, then he snatched his shirt from near the door. He spent a minute or more searching for his socks, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck until he caught a glimpse of green and orange underneath the bed. Pumpkin socks! Jaimie reached his way underneath the bed, collecting the socks, and quickly putting them on. At least there wasn’t a need to search for his shoes, those had been kicked off by the front door. 

Retrieving his phone of his pants pocket was the hardest decision of his life. Guilt collected in his chest, as if a thousand weights were placed there, crushing him slowly. It was an unforgiving feeling, breathing coming in quick and short spurts, the prick of tears in the corner of his eyes blurring vision. Through his tears he managed to unlock the phone, the bright screen delivering another slap to the face. Johnny Gat and his damn stupid fucking face, staring right back at him, picture drawn on with cat ears and whiskers. 

Johnny Cat. 

He’d have to change it, even if he didn’t want to. Jaimie adored the cat whiskers he ahdded to the man, just as much as he adored the man. 

Beyond the slap in the face picture, Jaimie noted the twenty missed calls, most of which were from Pierce, and the many text unanswered messages. Disappearing warranted worry, the invasive thought worming its way into his head if they would ever had worried if he wasn’t Boss. He didn’t want to focus on that thought, and quickly pocketed the phone.

Rolling his shoulders, he figured he had fifteen minutes until Shogo was done. Give or take a few. 

Jaimie decided to use the time to find something caffeinated, something that would wake him up quicker. There was vague memory of the location of the kitchen or something akin to one, Jaimie hadn’t really been paying attention while he was being kissed. Wandering, he wondered if he should have felt like a rabbit in a wolves den; afraid and alone like the rabbit, or devious and cruel like the wolf. All Jaimie felt was a pain in his ass, and a wanting for black coffee. 

There was pride, too, buried beneath everything. 

Admiring the home, Jaimie trailed his hand along the walls as he explored. Keeping himself away from the backrooms where Shogo had disappeared. It was nice to be apart, as was the home, adorned with Ronin pride and Shogo’s style. Jaimie bets that they’re the same thing. There’s an odd moment where he stumbled upon someone else, a bald and muscular man lingered in some other room and still as a statue. Jaimie doesn’t enter.

It occurs to him he’s never been particularly fond of the color yellow, but that he did not exactly mind this. Fingertips grazing the wall, pulling away before they can bump against the frame of a Japanese door. A shoji. Jaimie smiled, holding back a chuckle, loving the way culture mixed. It reminded him of his childhood, the one that he was apart of a little less than two months ago. 

Funny how the Saints stole away five years of his life, and he decided to give them the rest of it. 

Jaimie slipped into a different room, finding that it was indeed the kitchen, and he quickly made his way to the refrigerator in hope that there was something other than alcohol: he believed the entire population of Stilwater ran solely on alcohol. Canned cold coffee was fine, he hadn’t seen a coffee maker on the counter.

Scanning the contents of the fridge, he frowned. Alcohol, alcohol, a couple of cans of soda that looked like they had not moved in years, and a dull surprise to Jaimie, more alcohol!  
“Christ.” Jaimie sighed, closing the fridge with a huff. He’d kill for a coffee, and a month spent fucking a guy did not make him brave enough to search for a coffee maker and beans. Shogo could have favored tea, for all he remembered. 

“Disappointed?” 

The voice chuckled, leaving Jaimie to practically jump out of his skin. Whipping around, he pressed his back against the refrigerator, wide-eyed and staring downwards at Shogo. The other man looking back up at him, a lazy grin on his lips, hair spiked neatly, all too cocky for a man staring at a six-foot-seven-inch giant. 

“I--.”

“Come on,” Shogo placed a hand on Jaimie’s chest, letting his fingers dig into the days old t-shirt, then lightly raking them downwards to his midsection. “I’ve got us a car. Padded seats for your sore ass, too.” Giving Jaimie a pinch, he smirked at the shudder from his touch.

The walk to the car was quick and filled with silence, not that Jaimie minded as he was able to pay attention to his surroundings better this time. He saw the bald man again, their eye contact was brief before the stranger looked away with one single gaze and a sneer from Shogo.

Curious. Jaimie nibbled on the inside of his cheek, couldn’t stop himself from thinking about who that man was. He wore Ronin colors. A lieutenant, perhaps? The questions don’t leave even as he slipped into the car, a Zircon with a yellow matte paint job. As if The Boss wanted to scream to the world that he was banging the leader of the Ronin. At least the windows were tinted.

He sighed, settling himself into a comfortable position as Shogo got into the driver's’ seat. Jaimie spared a glance, giving him a lopsided grin. “I’m starting to be better than drugs and prostitutes, aren’t I?”

Shogo’s response was a hum that was quickly covered by the roar of the car’s engine. “You’ve lasted longer than a few of our whores, yeah.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m not addicted to drugs.” Maybe drinking, maybe Johnny Gat, and maybe you. Jaimie kept the comment to himself. “I won’t be dying anytime soon like them. Isn’t that the secret to keepin’ them? Getting them addicted, and then they have to keep coming back.” He feigns stupidity, but Jaimie knew the process. 

“You sure you don’t want to join the Ronin, Jaimie? You’re already sounding like us, you’re already fucking me. Could be a lieutenant, if you’re a decent fighter.” Shogo’s lips twitched, a glint of white teeth between his lips. Jaimie stared and wondered how he was able to keep those teeth as white as they were with how he smoked. Like a fucking Victorian chimney. 

“Just want to be your boyfriend, actually, not some bitch lackey you’ve fucked.” 

“Are we at the point you’re going to sling boyfriend around? Haven’t been telling anyone, have you?”

Jaimie hoped that his deep olive skin hide the warmth to his face, finding the street outside to be incredibly interesting. Streets he knew by heart, dirty alleys. “...Would rather be your boyfriend than some month long fuck buddy. Don’t want to keep wasting my time on you.”

“If anyone is wasting time, it’s me.” Shogo pulled to a stop. It was a change of pace for Jaimie to not tell him every turn, how he didn’t make a comment about his shitty apartment complex anymore. Couldn’t believe a month did that to someone.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not wasting my time.”

The car’s engine was still on, Jaimie should have gotten out and hauled ass inside, but instead he leaned across the seat. Fingers curled loosely in the front of Shogo’s shirt, pulling him closer, their foreheads touching. Jaimie’s strange eyes flickered to his necklace, the corners of his lips twitched upwards. 

He loved this man.

Pulling him into a kiss, Shogo’s lips were hot with the faintest taste of salt to them. Jaimie was lost in the way they felt against his own, warm and thin, not perfect but it was suitable. It couldn’t ever be perfect, Shogo bite Jaimies’ bottom lip and grazed the top with his teeth, the grip Jaimie had on his shirt slackening as he pulled back. He made a noise, something between a wince and a moan. It stung, he couldn’t help the itching thought that needed to know if Johnny would kiss him this hard, or if it would be something soft and tender that he’d feel as a slight tingling cascade on his lips until their next kiss.

Shogo and his kisses left Jaimies’ lips hot and hurting, pushing him away lightly. Fingertips just a featherlight brush as they traced exposed skin above a yellow shirt collar. Shogo noted how soft but strong Jaimie’s hands were, Jaimie noticed how Shogo shivered. 

“Does that mean we’re officially boyfriends?” Even fucked up ones? Still, the question is asked breathlessly, fingertips swirling and flicking the symbol of Shogos’ necklace. Eyes watched everything but the man, for he knew it would betray his fear, the hesitation that had been on the tongue and mind. 

“Boyfriends. I’ve marked you with my mouth enough, haven’t I? This is…”

“Softer?”

“Something like that, Jaimie.” Shogo couldn’t describe it, lost in his own words and silenced for once. Jaimie watched the brief hesitation, the moment of weakness shared with confidence. Jaimie reached up and used his thumb to push Shogos’ sunglasses down, now they rested against the bridge of his nose at an awkward angle.  
Shogo huffed, adjusting them.

“I’d like to hear you say it, just once,” Jaimie breathed, leaning close again, the curve of his mouth pressing against the spot just underneath Shogos’ ear. The man shivered, Jaimie pressing his lips there once more. “I know you won’t say it,” Jaimie didn’t even know if he could say it sincerely, doesn’t know if he’d be able to mean it to Shogo specifically. Could he really love an enemy? He shouldn’t.

“Jaimie.”

“Be sure to call me later, Shogo.” Jaimie planted a kiss on his cheek before pulling completely away, giving a half wave as he exited the car in an awkward slouch. Then he shut the door and the tall man disappeared quickly into the building. 

 

Jaimie pulled out his phone once he was safely upstairs, heavily leaning against the door to his apartment, taking extremely deep breaths as he looked over the missed calls gained in those few moments he wasted coming home. Most were from Pierce, but there was the call from Johnny that had his lungs threatening to burst for air. When had he stopped breathing?

Eyes closed, he called, listening to the ringing. The click of his call being answered was the most amazing thing.

“Aisha? Can….Can I come over later today? I want to talk with you, just you, I need to talk with only you. There isn’t anyone who’ll listen. I-- Please don’t let Johnny know, make sure he’s out of the house. I-- Thank you.”


	3. Aisha

Eyes slipping shut, the young Boss nuzzled his cheek against a thigh that seemed impossibly comfortable compared to the rest of the couch they lounged on. Fingers were methodically running through the mop of brown that was his hair, soothing him enough, lulling him into a place of security. A yawn forced its way from between his lips. He may have initially come to talk, but Aisha had a way about her that made Jaimie want to do everything but focus on the bad, at least until she was ready. 

In fact, when around Aisha the shitty issues did not seem as extreme or important as it was. Jaimie felt that he was able to discuss his problems with Aisha, and not face judgement in the way he would with Kinsey.

Aisha would lay a firm hand down, guiding him to a decision that raised his moral integrity, or at least preventing it from plummeting into an abyss of degrading morality.

Keeping his eyes tightly shut, Jaimie curled in on himself, pulling knees up to his chest. Aisha sat patiently, never stopping playing with his hair. Jaimie wasn’t certain if it was because she wanted to play with his hair or that she was trying to keep him from crying, in the end he didn’t mind the reasoning as long as she continued doing it. She was helping, even with the building tightening pain within his chest, but he did not want to cry as long as she stayed stroking his hair. 

He could have fallen asleep if he wasn’t constantly worrying that Johnny Gat was going to burst into the house at any given moment, brandishing flowers in his hands for Aisha. He wasn’t exactly sure he could take any more disruptions or running away for the day.

“Aisha?”

“Yes, hun.” It wasn’t a question, the tone of her voice stayed flat, not a rise of inquiry. Just a slight, subtle sigh from her lips, letting Jaimie know that she was not ready to talk. That she needed to settle and sort her own thoughts before she could with Jaimie’s, and Jaimie never minded this. 

Settling back down, he gave a puff of air, craning his neck to press his mouth against her clothed thigh. Eyes shut tightly as he gently kissed the upper portion of her thigh. Aisha focused on straightening the braids she’d placed in his hair, Jaimie’s breath deepened. She smelled of flowers, and it made him smile despite himself. Johnny Gat with flowers was a terribly domestic sight, and as much as it hurt, Jaimie loved that they were regularly being given to Aisha, and how their flowery scent stayed on her. 

Together they stayed in the silence for what seemed to be hours. Perhaps it was hours, Jaimie had lost track of time the moment he stepped into the threshold of Aisha’s home, even more so as he dozed in and out of sleep. Her fingers had long since stopped braiding and unbraiding his hair, and he could feel the final braids shift as he turned his head to press his cheek against her thigh, smiling widely. 

She gently shook her leg, signally she was ready to deal with him, even if he wasn’t ready to deal with himself. 

“You wanted to talk?” Her voice was soft, something in it too kind, what Jaimie hasn’t heard since the explosion and the coma. Shifting to rest on her back, her thigh pressing against the back of his neck, one of her hands naturally came to rest against his forehead as the other stayed playing with his hair. 

“Am I a bad person?” Jaimie asked, wondering how long it was going to be where he spent sleepless nights putting every decision he had ever made, and was going to make, through repetitive and unnecessary postmortems. 

“Bad is subjective, hun.” Aisha didn’t look down at him, instead looking to the window expectantly. Jaimie knew she has thought about this subject before, could see it, hear it even, and he wondered exactly what she had decided. 

“Am I bad to you?”

“No,” her answer was quicker and sharper than any slap, Jaimie flinching against her words. Having felt guilty for asking her, for remotely doubting her, he turned his head away. Her hands began to undo the braid she had thoughtfully placed.

Braid, undo, and repeat.

It was their way of being able to cope with these talks. Their special way to keep the peace and to keep the tears at bay. Although, it was only Jaimie who cried. He’d tear himself to pieces if Aisha ever cried because of him; get down onto his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness, rip out his own beating heart out and present it to her if that is what it took to dry her tears. 

“Do you think…” Jaimie closed his eyes, did not want to see her reaction when he asked her question, “...that I am bad for Johnny?”

“I would argue that he’s bad for you, more than you’re for him.” Aisha knew that Johnny wasn’t really good for anyone. She was one of the few that knew Jaimie was just a kid when he was Playa, just like Julius had, of course she hadn’t tried to use him. 

“Don’t say that.”

“You wanted the truth, hun.” Scolding him, Jaimie’s breath caught in his throat. She was right, he admitted, fingernails digging into the fleshy part of his palms. 

“I wish that you would lie to me sometimes, even if it’s bad to lie. I wish you’d lie.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was completely natural, her hands working to braid his hair once again, his own hands releasing the tension that of his fingernails embedded in palms. While he hadn’t broken the skin, he had made obvious crescent dents, and Jaimie refused to look at them by keeping his eyes shut. Deep breaths in order to relax before the next question, listening to the way Aisha’s breath above him matched his own, and the scratching of her nails on his scalp.

“You love Johnny?” A question that he had never dared to ask, and with the way she stopped braiding his hair made him think it was a question she’s never wanted to hear from Jaimie: The Boss. 

“I do, Jaimie. I love him.” There’s a gentle coo to her voice, as if she were soothing a baby, her hands moving back to braiding. “He may not be the best man, but I love him.”

“Faults and all?”

“Faults and all, Jaimie.”

Jaimie did not know why, though he often didn’t, he really wanted to cry. He wanted to grab Aisha by the shoulders and shake her, plead to her to tell him exactly how she could love at all with a man having faults and all. Ask her why it was he couldn’t love like her. Of course he doesn’t, instead he sighed as she smoothed his hair down. Instead he listened to their breathing, attempting to distract himself with the way her fingers smoothed out his wild curls, and how she knew every little thing about him that he had yet to learn about himself. 

“You know, don’t you, Aisha? You always know.” Jaimie cried out, pressing his palms violently against his closed eyes. “Even before I know! It’s unfair! It’s unfair, but you know that, too.” 

Jaimie was acting like a child. A little less than a month ago he had been a child, only fifteen, and there were times where he couldn’t believe that in the darkness five years had passed. Maybe he couldn’t ever believe that he had aged in that sleep, because being in the coma was a shitty deep sleep, waking up one day to find this. 

He can’t see her frowning, but he could feel it, and he pressed his palms harder against his eyelids as if he held a mean grudge on sight. Her hands removed from her hair, her fingers tightly coiling around his wrists, gently prying his hands away from his face. Aisha held his heavy wrists, letting her thumb draw soft circles across a join that he couldn’t remember the name of. Carpals, he thought. 

“I know how you feel about him.” She verbally confirmed, although it was unneeded. 

It upset Jaimie that she hadn’t become angry with him, made him want to scream and punch at how she was too understand instead of, well, literally anything else. It would have been easier to hate himself if she was angry with him, because then at least he wouldn’t humor himself with loving Johnny anymore. 

“Then why don’t you stop me.” Jaimie was on the cusp of sobbing, voice a strangled cry against his college worthy torment. 

“I can’t stop myself from loving him anymore than you can, hun.” Not that she would ever want to stop loving him. Aisha may have had her doubts once, but Johnny had done too much for her, and they’d done too much together to even consider ever stop loving the man.

Jaimie pulled a hand free from her grasp, then immediately took hold of Aisha’s hand. He intertwined their fingers, daring to briefly open a single eye to see if she had gone back to staring out the window. On the lookout for Johnny, because when she wanted something, he did it quicker than usual for her, unless stated otherwise. Aisha knew Johnny’s presence now would only upset them all.

“You too.” Jaimie squeezed her hand, and relieved that this was another pointless verbal admission. “I wish you’d stop me from it. Hurts to feel this way about both of you,” It was hard to say love, “and I-- I don’t know if it’s good to feel this way for you, too.” He couldn’t finish, letting the sentence die off instead of bumbling for words. 

Aisha looked down at him, her smile softer than expected, and her eyes all too knowing. While she didn’t say anything, a sigh escaped her lips. 

Jaimie almost felt bad for this, but he felt far better talking about it.

“You know, I met a boy, Aisha. He’s not good for me, but at least I like him.” Jaimie closed his eyes, guiding Aisha’s hand back to his hair. “He doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t know that I’m The Boss and all.”

“Don’t you think that’s cruel to him, Jaimie.” Another statement that Jaimie had been ignoring, because they both knew it was wrong, Jaimie just knew more as to why it was wrong. 

“I know that, Aisha. I know it isn’t right, but I’ve been seeing him for a month now. I… sorry I kissed Johnny, by the way, wasn’t right of me to do it. I hadn’t meant to do it, either, and he isn’t mine to--”

“Tell me about this boy, Jaimie. There’s no use talking about the past and Johnny.” Aisha interrupted.

Jaimie was thankful that she did. 

“He’s definitely not a good man, but not bad either. Smokes a lot, mouth doesn’t taste like an ashtray, though. He’s an arrogant and cocky bastard, and if he knew who I was, he wouldn’t like it. Wouldn’t work out if he knew the Boss.” That was all he could say before the tears started.

Jaimie’s body wracked pitifully with sobs, Aisha’s hands working to pet down Jaimie’s hair as he did. Hiccuping, gasping wildly for the air, turning his head to the left and letting his tears stain dark circles onto her pants leg. That made him cry even more. He wanted to vocalize his apologies between the sobbing, a string of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry until Aisha grew tired of him and tossed his sorry ass outside. Neither of those things were going to happen. He wouldn’t be able to move his lips into an apology, and Aisha wouldn’t throw him outside a sobbing mess. 

Jaimie didn’t know how long he lied there sobbing, how long he shook in her arms like a freezing man in winter. Pulling at her clothing, twisting it between his fingers, then flattening it back down in apologetic meekness for wrinkling her clothing. It couldn’t have been that long, but Jaimie cried often enough to know that he could, and had, cried for hours. The night after becoming Playa, he cried for seven hours. By the fifth hour mark, his tears had dried out, leaving nothing but a goo as he continued biting into his pillow to muffle his sobs. 

Jaimie wouldn’t have been able to say when he had fallen asleep, somewhere between his tears drying out and the encroaching headache. With the way Aisha’s hands combed his hair, he fell asleep, only vaguely aware of being moved.

 

Aisha stood to the side, her arms crossed across her chest, deeper in her thoughts as Johnny worked to move Jaimie from her couch. The boy was longer than it, and she would not hide her surprise at how Johnny was able to expertly fold the extremely tall body of his Boss, holding him protectively close to his chest. A very slight, unnoticeable action that anyone else but her would have paid no attention to; only Aisha bothered to notice how touching the gesture was. It was a touching gesture, even if Jaimie lay asleep.

She watched from the doorway as Johnny placed his Boss into his personal car, a nice thing she’d be glad to take a ride in. A smile found its way onto her face as Johnny buckled his Boss up. 

While she had never been much of an optimist; in the moment’s where she couldn’t think of a way to escape the music business, while she had never resigned herself completely to it, she hadn’t thought that she would ever leave it. That was until Johnny came. 

They’re good together, the three of them. Not exactly like this, but they were good together.


	4. Dinner

The Boss slammed the barrel of the bat against the head of some unknown yellow and black wearing Ronin lackey that he hasn’t seen before. It connected with their temple, the Ronin ended up falling against the alleyway wall, finding themselves stuck between the building of a warehouse and the Bosses metal baseball bat. 

The Boss raised the bat once more, bringing the end cap to the back of the Ronin’s knee, choked sobs wracked their body as they fell to the ground, clothes and body shredded from the motorcycle crash caused by none other than their torturer. 

The Boss slammed the end cap at the back of their neck. An inhuman cry left the Ronin Biker’s throat breaking the honking of car horns on a farther away. He swung the bat and cracked it across the back of the biker’s skull, continuing to strike until the bat shifted in his grip, stopping just briefly enough in order to readjust it. Palms were slick with sweat and blood, blood which had also splattered along his forearms. The heat generated by his movements a stark contrast against the wetness cooling on his flesh in Stilwater’s air. 

He continued whacking away. Teeth dislodged from the biker’s mouth, a few of which were swallowed and became lodged within the biker’s throat, the others dribbled onto the ground in a concoction of saliva, snot, blood, and irregular chunks of flesh and skull. The Boss continued whacking until his shoulders began to ache from the violence of his swinging, and his chest began rising and falling heavily as he desperately breathed in. The Ronin bikers head was splattered unevenly between the Boss, the alleyway wall, and the asphalt that smelled a little like oil and a lot more like fresh piss. All the Boss could smell was blood, metallic and bitter, as if a penny was being held right underneath his nose. 

His shoulders slumped in exhaustion, the Boss leaned against the bat in order to catch his breath. Even his mouth tasted like copper, he sniffled against the sweeter smell of blood. He recalled how it used to be sickening to him. 

The Boss remembered the first time he killed someone. His hands had gripped the gun a little too tightly, when he fired the blast had burned the side of his thumb, and afterwards he had vomited then cried for hours. For days he had not wanted to leave his apartment, burying himself underneath a pile of blankets, staring blankly at the phone he’d been given by Dez and wishing that someone would call him but never taking the incentive to call someone himself. That night he sucked at his thumb until it pruned, then cried until there was nothing but a strange yellow-goo coming from his eyes. 

It no longer physically sickened him, at least not as much. He could not feel any rising bile nor did he suspect that it would come. The only thing that brought bile rising was looking at Johnny’s face and knowing what he knew, and soon found that even pictures were enough to remind the Boss of his guilt. 

After several long moments of regaining his breath, the Boss fetched the phone out of his back pocket, carefully leaning the metal baseball bat against the alleyway wall to avoid it clattering to the ground as he checked over his recent messages. As he suspected the most recently missed, or rather ignored car, was from Pierce.

Jaimie hesitantly looked through his calls, both relieved and disappointed to see that Johnny hadn’t called him. Texting was a whole other matter. Jaimie found himself caring less and less about the three messages from Johnny, and more about the two texts from Shogo. Shogo Akuji, the Ronin leader. A large amount of guilt seeped into Jaimie’s mind when he looked to the bleeding and mutilated form of the Ronin biker he beat to death, then turned his back to his handiwork in order to answer. 

‘What are you up to. Dinner later?’

The grin on his lips only wavering at the smudge of blood on the phone's screen, wiping it away with his thumb as he formed a response. SUre it was an hour late response, but it was better than nothing. It was better than not being responded to at all, right?

‘Sure, pick me up? Give me an hour.’

Jaimie looked back to the body.

‘Actually give me thirty extra minutes.’

Satisfied, Jaimie pocketed his phone, wiggling his fingers in disgust at the sticky coating they acquired from handling the biker. Green cat eyes fell to the weapon at hand, picking it up and resting it on his shoulder becoming the splitting image of a boy ready to play baseball -- minus the gore, or maybe add more gore. Stilwater baseball. 

Jaimie took the back alleys home, the few people that did spot him knew him as the Boss and not Jaimie Lian. They didn’t say anything: a few eyebrows raised, mostly by the newest Saints. They were faces that Jaimie hadn’t seen personally but knew from pictures, he had his system in maintaining the Saints and making sure that everyone was where they needed to be. A system that included photos: nothing electronical, all on paper, Pierce expressed his hatred for it and Shaundi found it funny to fuck with Pierce when he was organizing. It was all for a reason, Jaimie couldn’t handle electronics, it was a miracle his phone hadn’t spontaneously exploded in his pocket. 

On his way back to the apartment Jaimie stopped to find a rag being shoved into his hands from a random Saint. Marcel was his name, Jaimie only knew that because of the sewn patch on the others mechanic jumpsuit, and Jaimie thanked him with a grin as he cleaned what little he could with the dirty, oil stained rag. He offered it back to Marcel, but they dismissed him with a wave of the wrist and said to keep it, Jaimie shrugged as the mechanic went back to their day job.

It was nice, reassuring even, to see that the Saints had jobs beyond the Saints. While he wanted them to be loyal and dedicate their time, he didn’t want them on the streets forever if he failed. God! He always felt that he was going to fail, that he wouldn’t know what to do if Carlos and Johnny weren’t by his side. He wasn’t sure he could handle another day of this life if he couldn’t confide in Aisha either. 

Jaimie shrugged those thoughts away as he continued walking down the back alleys, so very close to the privacy of his apartment that he dared to take the main roads with little to no concern who saw him. A few green cars passed, Jaimie stood laz and stared for a moment too long. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever darted into his apartment building that quickly before, long legs working double time up the stairs, and once he was inside he tossed the baseball bat and rag somewhere out of sight. He wasn't in the mood to be question by Shogo if he happened to see the gorey bat, he was more in the mood for a dinner that he wasn’t going to be paying for. 

Jaimie decided to take the longest shower that he’s ever had since waking from the coma, making sure to clean his hair of any chunks that may have stuck in. He scrubbed at his skin to remove the scent of blood, watching the water go from red to pink to clear. Once he was finished he dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, smelling of oranges as he sat contently on the couch. He bought a new shampoo, something orange-scented from Japan, he ordered it a week or two back. 

He didn’t bother dressing up, picking lazily at the hem of his shirt. Jaimie looked to his phone, chewing on the inner lining of his cheek , then snached it up and looked through his messages. A quick text to Pierce would ensure that he wouldn’t be sought out tonight, and letting the other know that he was heading towards the Rebadeaux section and needed the area clear ASAP. He went so far as to ask that no Saints were hanging around too close, the excuse of a personal mission seemed fitting. 

It technically was a personal mission, dating. 

He didn’t want any Saint to see his face or approach him, and there was a piece of him that felt bad. Who wouldn’t want to know the Boss’ face? Not many of them. It was easier to meet a mechanic than the Boss. 

It was ten minutes past the hour and thirty that Jaimie had asked for; the man taking to lying sideways on the couch with a glass bottle balanced on his hip with a hand around the bottle's neck, the other hand had his phone, and his legs dangled awkwardly over the armrest with their ankles hooked. Jaimie mindlessly looked through his contacts, squeezing the beer bottle as he chewed on his bottom lip, leaning up enough to drink and not spill drink on himself. 

Near radioactive cat eyes stayed focused on the contact list as he finished off the rest of the bottle, tossing it backwards over his head and relishing the satisfying, yet dull, thud of the bottle against one of the many cardboard boxes he hadn’t had the time or care to unpack. More like he didn’t want to focus on the memories that would come from unpacking, things that felt as if they had happened yesterday but happened five years ago. 

Aisha said he was robbed of many things when he joined the Saints; childhood, grief. She was right. Aisha was always right. 

Jaimie couldn’t be bothered to call anyone. Afraid that as soon as he called, Shogo would come to the door and hear him speaking, and that would ruin everything. He knows that it will be ruined, whatever it was that they had, but he just didn’t want it to yet. He wanted to live in the bliss of ignorance of deception, and it was fucking selfish but he was going to do it anyways. 

Instead of calling, he sends a text. 

‘Hey Carlos. Need you tonight at the apartment not the crib. Midnight. Mind picking up a shake?’ He couldn’t imagine meeting at the Saints hideout tonight. The guilt would be far too upfront.

It took less than a minute for Carlos to respond, seemed like a second. 

‘sure boss. usual?’  
‘Definitely usual. See you then.’  
‘try not to be asleep’

Jaimie snorted, rolling his eyes, then rolling off the couch and landing onto the floor with a soft thud and a grunt. Now lying on his stomach, Jaimie wiggled his butt, propping himself up with his elbows. 

‘FUCK YOU! Try not to fall asleep and forget’  
‘wouldn’t think of it, boss’  
‘Wouldn’t expect you to.’  
‘need me to bring anything else? this another usual night or something serious?’

Jaimie groaned, dropping the phone to the floor to run his hands over his face. After rubbing his eyes with his palms, he picked the phone back up. Nibbling on his bottom lip, Jaimie debated on what to say.

‘Yeah, usual night. Some serious shit is a maybe.’

While Carlos wasn’t Aisha, he was still easy enough to talk to. He had a love that made Jaimie want it -- him sometimes.

He was interrupted from embarrassing himself further to Carlos by a knock on the door. Jaimie jumped up onto his feet, arms outstretched to balance himself as he scrambled forward to the door. He stopped himself moments before opening it, shoving his phone into his back pocket, then spent a moment to straighten his clothes. Once that was in order, he threw the door open with a grin too wide for how he felt. 

In the moment it occurred to him that he’s never checked the peephole. Maybe he should.

The thought left his mind the moment he saw Shogo standing there, wearing casual clothing different than what he’s seen before, there’s an air of professionalism that made Jaimie’s grin wider, if that were possible. He was cute. Shogo looked up as Jaimie hooked his fingers in the waist of the others pants and pulled him forward. 

Shogo stumbled, bracing himself with two hands against Jaimie’s chest “Hey now, Jaimie.”

“Hey now yourself.” Jaimie bent down to plant a kiss on Shogo’s jawline, taking two steps backwards to pull the shorter man further into the apartment. A woman named Susan, who lived down the hall, would have a fit if she saw two men like this. Jaimie fucking hated her. He tried getting her evicted, but she kept coming back, and he wouldn’t have thought the Saints to get rid of her. “You know you’re ten minutes late. Didn’ forget me, did you?”

Shogo tensed, Jaimie could feel his jaw tighten against his lips. Shogo detached himself with a jerk of the head to avoid more kissing, a grin on his lips that had Jaimie’s knees buckling. “Nah. I didn’t forget you. Had a few errands to do, a few things to take care of.” Shogo rested his fingers on Jaimie’s wrists, running a thumb along his vein in the silence. “Are you going to release me so we can go or are we skipping right to sex?”

Jaimie rolled his eyes, removing his hands both from Shogo’s pants and hands, taking a few steps backwards. “Not feelin’ sex tonight, let’s just have dinner. You bring a car?”

Shogo’s countenance broke with something that Jaimie couldn’t identify, the knitting of brows and a quirk of lips downwards suggested fear. It was gone before he could decide what it was, and he thought it best not to bring it up. 

“Yeah, yeah. I brought a car.” It was purely for Jaimie’s sake. Not because he couldn’t be seen with a man’s arms wrapped around his waist. Jaimie clung tightly like he was going to die if he let go, as far as Shogo knew he may. 

Jaimie bent again, planting a kiss on Shogo’s cheek. “Alright, let’s go.”

The pair went down the stairs quickly, Jaimie settling in the passenger seat while Shogo hesitated at the door. He looked around for a moment or two as if he expected someone to approach him, then with a reluctance to his action and a sneer he entered the car. 

That sneer was always there. Jaimie had spent little over a month with him, and he’s only ever seen it break into a smile a few times but certainly not enough for his liking. It was as if those lips were permanently molded into a sneer, on occasion an arrogant grin, but hardly a smile. Jaimie liked them both, it made a smile all the more satisfying. 

Jaimie didn’t bother to buckle, never had been a thing unless he was driving because he drove like a madman so he had to. He never actually learned to drive, picked it up along the way instead with Troy’s suggestion. Shogo didn’t say anything to it or maybe he hadn’t noticed Jaimie didn’t buckle up because they were already driving to Kanto. Jaimie leaned back in the seat, reaching between his legs in order to adjust it and give himself some more legroom, from the corner of his eye he watched Shogo’s lips quirk upwards into a smirk.

“You better put that back, Jaimie.”

“Or what, going to punish me if I don’t?” Jaimie asked, tilting his head to the side, a wide grin on his lips. A tongue poked between the gap in his teeth. 

Shogo cocked a brow. On anyone else the scene would have been disgustingly funny, on Jaimie it was just cute. “I might, but not tonight.”

Jaimie’s heart practically exploded, swooned so easily. He focuses on the window, watching the buildings go by to avoid saying anything. Watching shitty buildings with chipped brown bricks, suspicious masses of fuzzy something, old to new holes that Jaimie knew came from the spray of bullets, and stains that couldn’t be washed away no matter how hard it rained. Things that Jaimie didn’t want to see be changed, that he couldn’t release his hold on as they were the last bit of familiarity he truly had. 

Shogo did not like the city. He expressed it enough, verbally and not, believing it to be a shithole that needed the change Ultor provided. Jaimie had to agree the place was a shithole, but it was an entirely different way of thought. Stilwater was his city, Jaimie’s shitty city. He’d never let anyone, even himself, level the community and salt the earth. 

They arrive at Kanto a lot faster than Jaimie would have idly liked, Jaimie shuffling out of the car and automatically slouching, shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets as he waited for Shogo. His height was just enough giveaway to a passing Saint as his face was; how many Saints were six-foot-seven? 

“Something wrong, Jaimie?” Now there’s an air of professionalism in Shogo’s voice that Jaimie disliked, hypocritical considering he liked the man wearing it. Jaimie bite his bottom lip to stop from groaning aloud. Wonderful, a date disguised as a business meeting, he should have known!

“Nah. Ain’t nothing wrong.” Jaimie shrugged, feigning interest in the Japanese restaurant then to the nearby water. Oh look, a boat! It looked particularly cute. Jaimie forced himself not to look around, hands in his pocket twitching, he really hoped a Saint wasn’t around and he really wanted that cute-looking boat. “Was just thinkin’ this is suppose to be a date and not some business meetin’.” 

Shogo’s taken aback however brief, literally taking two steps away from the driver-side door then moving swiftly around the car to stand at Jaimie’s side. “You think it isn’t a date?”

“Sure as shit don’t feel like one, but I get it,” Jaimie shrugged lazily, “You can’t be seen with no guy, I get it.” There’s the same sense of hatred balling in his stomach that came when he thought about Johnny Gat, or when he was near Johnny Gat, or when he was thinking about how nice to would be to kiss Johnny’s lips. “You’ve got a reputation, I get it.”

“It isn’t like that. You can’t actually be upset about this! You know who I am, Jaimie.” Shogo reached out to grab Jaimie’s shoulder, some hesitation made the action sluggish. 

“I do know who you are,” Jaimie snapped, recoiling back from any touch, shoulders raised in anticipation although his hands stayed firmly jammed within the confines of his pockets. He sniffled as if on the verge of tears, looking dejectedly at the ground. “I-- Let’s just get inside, Shogo. I know you don’ mean nothing by it.”

“Yeah, Jaimie. Let’s go inside, up to the third floor.” Shogo stared at the other for a long, hard moment. Jaimie straightened to his full height underneath the gaze, deciding it best to get walking and not spare a glance back to Shogo. He knew what it was like to be a leader, just because Shogo wasn’t aware did not mean it was an invalid experience. 

Maybe he should feel something similar to niceness or even be impressed that Shogo’s gone and cleanred the top floor just for them. It certainly made him less pissed about the business meeting charade, and there was some form of bubbly laughter in his gut at the idea Shogo was aiming to impress a man like Jaimie by throwing money around Kanto. A restaurant that he owned. It really had the opposite effect, Jaimie thought any number of men or women would be impressed that Shogo owned a place like this, to Jaimie he’s having an internal laughing fit over the fact that he’s brought here. 

They walk up the stairs quickly and quietly, Jaimie slowly falling behind Shogo by the second set of stairs, lingering a few seconds behind to look at the faces of patrons. While he has spotted a few pimps, he hasn’t spotted a Saint nor Pierce in some stupid suit spying on him. The tension balling in his chest loosened, and Jaimie has a spring in his step as he worked double time to be besides Shogo. Long legs really made things easier. 

“It’s a pretty nice place,” He commented, “I’ve never actually been here before.” 

“Why haven’t you?” Jaimie swore he could hear a hint of offense in Shogo’s voice, just the smallest taste of it. It was cute. 

“Too far from home, you know? Not enough time in my day.” Jaimie shrugged, noting the two table styles placed on the third floor. There were higher tables with chairs shoved more towards the corner of the room, while the lower and traditional tables where someone could sit on a pillow or the floor were mostly centered in the middle. Jaimie decided right there and then that he wanted to sit on a pillow even if it would kill his back to slouch. “Hey. Can we sit on the-- can we do the floor sittin’?” Jaimie turned to Shogo all smiles, almost bouncing on his heels at the very idea.

He was a sucker for culture, his own and other peoples. 

“Yeah, sure. Why not, Jaimie.” Shogo shrugged, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a half empty pack of cigarettes. Ushering Jaimie with a nod of his head to the nearest low table, he freed a cigarette and was quick to light it. As Jaimie settled on the floor he took a deep drag, watching the other disregard the pillow as if it were merely for decoration and not to protect his ass from the hardwood. Shogo rolled his eyes, a puff of smoke his laughter, and turned his head just slightly as he sat to blow smoke from his nose away from the table. 

“What are you going to get, Shogo?” Jaimie rested his forearms onto the table, a menu already placed that he pushed away before clasping his hands, watching the wisps of cigarette smoke. He knew Carlos wouldn’t ask about the smell of smoke, Jaimie didn’t think it was going to stick to his clothings. Kanto had better ventilation that his shitty apartment, and he wasn’t spending a night writhing underneath Shogo.

Shogo inhaled, looking back over Jaimie lazily, giving the slightest quirk of his lips as he tapped the cigarette with his forefinger. The ash fell onto the table, Shogo gently brushed it aside with the back of his other hand. “Skirt steak.”

A waiter sauntered over, Jaimie watching him with curious eyes. He had a strong jaw, soft dark hair with a strip of red along the fringe; he was cute, though the ring on his finger meant he was married, and the yellow crop-top and jacket said he was a Ronin. Wasn’t a waiter, either, a waiter certainly wouldn’t wear a crop-top. The man set a pot of tea down the two cups, looking over to Shogo with a raised brow. Shogo nodded, the man had all the permission he needed to pour the two a drink. 

“What will you have, Jaimie?” 

While soup wasn’t a sexy thing to eat, Jaimie was feeling the idea of a soup. Glancing at the menu, though he did not flip the thing open, scanning the front page while his tongue explored the gap between his teeth. Eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, deciding against having soup. “Aah-- same as you, I guess.”

Shogo gave a shrug, waving his hand to summon the black and red haired man from his lingering by the doorway. He took a long drag from the cigarette before speaking, “You heard that? Two skirt steaks. Go.” Then Shogo waved him away, taking another dragon from his cigarette as he returned his attention to Jaimie, licking his lips as he blew smoke. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Oh. Yeah. I love goin’ on dates that are disguised as business meetings on the third floor of a restaurant which my date owns. I’m fuckin’ enjoying myself to the fullest!” There wasn’t a hint of malice, nothing that suggested he was upset, too much of a light an airy tone as Jaimie gave a rundown of their situation. Mostly from himself, but it was funny to see Shogo’s face light up with surprise, then watch him hide behind a drag of his cigarette. “Come on, I’m jokin’. I like spending time with you.”

Shogo held the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary, Jaimie leaned back and watched him. “We could always leave.” Shogo stated. It wasn’t like he was paying for anything, what was a couple of steaks? 

“Nah. We can stay. I do need to be home before midnight, have work and shit in the morning.”

“Alright.” Shogo nodded, finishing off his cigarette, putting it out on the ash pile on the table he had made. It smudged, staining the table, but at least it did not burn it. 

Jaimie frowned, “Necessary?”

“It is my restaurant.” Shogo cocked an eyebrow, going for another cigarette. Fuck, his last one. “It’s just a smudge, Jaimie.” 

“It’s a bitch move towards your employees.” Jaimie countered, quickly reaching across the table to grip Shogo’s jaw. He nearly spilt his cup of tea but saved himself with a pull to usher Shogo forward, and the man complied easily enough that Jaimie captured their lips in a kiss. 

Shogo abandoned his last cigarette in favor of taking hold of Jaimie’s cheeks, swiping his tongue along the others bottom lip before forcing his way into the other's hot mouth. Jaimie parted his lips, moaning as Shogo ran his tongue along his molars. They broke apart as quickly as they had come together, Shogo shoving Jaimie back at the sound of footsteps.

Jaimie caught himself from falling back by the palms, he panted as Shogo straightened himself. By the time the steaks were placed in front of them there was nothing to tell that the two had kissed beyond the flush to Jaimie’s cheeks. 

“Thanks...Daniel.” So the black and red haired man was named Daniel. Jaimie gave him a wave and smile, quicker to say thank you to the man than Shogo had been. 

Daniel went back down the stairs. Jaimie had a sneaking suspicion that he was standing at the bottom of them, patiently or impatiently stopping anyone but himself from going up to the third floor on Shogo’s orders. Jaimie thought that it was sweet, pushing a lock of hair that had been displaced during the kiss back underneath his ear. They sat in silence for awhile, the two cutting into their steaks and eating at their respective paces. Jaimie looked around the room as he chewed, trying not to feel unnerved as Shogo kept his gaze on him. He couldn’t help but think that Shogo was gauging Jaimie for a reaction to, well, everything. 

“...Any reason that you wanted a date tonight?” Jaimie asked, diverting his attention to cutting himself another piece of bite-sized steak. It melted in his mouth, and while it wasn’t a Freckle Bitch’s, he liked it. “Cause it isn’ really like you to suggest it. Unless this is you tricking me into joining the Ronin or something… You’re not doing that shit, are you?” Jaimie raised an eyebrow, studying the expression on Shogo’s face for any tell: still impassively arrogant. 

Shogo laughed. It was more of a sarcastic huff of breath as he swallowed, but Jaimie considered it a laugh. “Exactly. You’ve caught me red handed or rather yellow handed.” Shogo took a sup of tea, watching Jaimie over the rim of his cup. Jaimie flushed, looking down at his plate. Oh, is that parsley next to his steak? “No, I figured we should go out, you seemed to want it, Jaimie.”

“Since when did you start caring about what I wanted?” Jaimie was teasing, but underneath it was something gravely serious. There were times that Jaimie didn’t want to fuck, and Shogo ended up getting a blowjob. There were times when Jaimie wanted nothing more than to go out for a movie or dinner, and Shogo decided that they’d stay at his place and do whatever; they’d talk, Jaimie would manage to convince him to cuddle, and while it was nothing that he disliked Jaimie never exactly got what he wanted. 

“Since you started crying over a soda that you couldn’t open.” Shogo was nearly finished with his steak, pushing it aside without the intention of finishing the last few bites. Instead he fished out his last cigarette. “And when you started crying about being called another whore. None of my men know who you are, why take it as anything but gossip?”

“Easy for you to say. You don’ have anyone calling you some fucking whore.” Jaimie’s hand clenched tightly to his knife and fork, taking deep breaths before releasing them, setting them onto the plate gently. He was finished anyways, Jaimie didn’t even feel like picking at the side veggies. “I don’ want to be just another whore to you. Some fucking cum dumpster!” 

“Who even said that you were just another whore?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ deny it!”

“You think that I actually fucking listen to them, Jaimie?”

“I think that you fucking should!”

“It’s not like you’ve ever run a gang. What would you know about it?” Shogo snapped, flicking ash onto Jaimie’s plate as insult. His lips pulled back into a sneer, disgusted. “I don’t need to listen to gossip, there isn’t a point to it. You’re not just another whore to me, why the fuck are you even listening to gossip? Do you think I’d take a whore here or anywhere? You think I’d care about how a whore feels?” Shogo rose, albeit it was an awkward rise since he was sitting on the floor, then proceeded to kick the pillow he’d been sitting on in a childish fit. “Do you really think that I consider you just another whore?”

Jaimie kept his gaze focused on the dirty, ashen plate. Eyebrows knitted together in deep thought, sniffling and on the verge of tears. He raised his hands and pressed his palms against his eyes, he would not cry tonight. “N-No, Shogo.” Jaimie didn’t want to cry so he didn’t remove his hands, he knew if he did tears would spill. “I-- No. No, I don’t think that. It’s just that… I- I don’t like hearin’ it, Shogo.” He sighed, finally finding the courage to pry his hands away from his face, looking up at Shogo. 

When did he get closer, when did he get to his side? Ah, fuck, he was kneeling now. 

“Jaimie?” Shogo took a hold of Jaimie’s chin, squeezing his jaw lightly. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t cry, Jaimie.” He didn’t want to deal with any crying, Jaimie or no. “You going to cry, Jaimie?”

Jaimie looked back at Shogo, near radioactive cat eyes wide. “No.” He mumbled, bringing a hand up to touch the other’s wrist. “Can we...can we go? I want to go home, please.” 

Shogo stared back at Jaimie for a few long, torturous moments. He was searching for something that not even he knew, then he pressed their lips together into a chaste kiss. Quick, it ended before Jaimie gripped Shogo’s wrist enough that it hurt, and Shogo pulled away quickly. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

The drive home seemed to be twice as quick as the drive to Kanto. Jaimie kept his head pressed against the window, this times his eyes were shut as they drove. He would vomit if he saw those buildings. Still, he couldn’t help but find being the passenger in a relatively smooth car ride was relaxing, but Shogo was a better driver than himself. He didn’t swerve or stall the car, just smooth sailing. He was close to falling asleep until Shogo gripped his shoulder and squeeze. Jaimie said his thanks, leaning over and planting a quick kiss on Shogo’s cheek. “I-- despite what I said, I had a fun time.” 

His hands fell to the door handle moments from stepping out before Shogo stopped him with another touch to the shoulder. “Don’t listen to my men, understand? They don’t know shit about us.”


	5. Carlos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much longer could he pretend that everything was fine? How much longer until the mask started slipping, until he started slipping up? Maybe he should go back to keeping his mouth shut, let Johnny do all the talking, but it’s not like him and Johnny were talking much lately.

Jaimie thought that he ran up the stairs and entered his apartment quicker than he ever had, which seemed impossible considering how badly his knees trembled. Several times he had almost lost his footing, but regained it with a bounce. 

Opening the apartment door with trembling hands before slamming it shut should have been an olympic event, making his way to the couch and collapsing onto it without much thought to creaking springs and burn holes. 

Naturally he kicked his feet over the armrest, pulling himself by his calf muscle until he was sufficiently curled up, his head lay comfortably against a couch cushion while legs and lower back supported him. Fuck back pains. Jaimie could handle the back pain, but he couldn’t handle the neck pains. Arching his back, he retrieved his phone, then collapsed against the cushions with a huff.

It wasn't even close to midnight. Ten thirty exactly, and Jaimie groaned in frustration as he ran a hand over his face, dropping the phone onto his chest. It landed with a dull thump, the weight of it felt more like a crushing force.  
Could he manage to sneak in a nap before Carlos arrived? Would he even wake up? Did it matter if he ever woke up?

Keeping a hand over his face, Jaimie forced his eye to close, deciding that it was better for himself if he tried to sleep rather than sit and shuffle through his thoughts. Except he wasn’t able to sleep, his brain deciding to it was better to over think. Johnny, Shogo, Johnny. Are there enough guns to go against the Brotherhood? When was the last time he texted Johnny Gat? Was Shogo upset with him? Did Shogo know about his relationship to the Saints?  
“Oh mother fucking hell! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck this, fuck everything- Fuck!” Jaimie kicked his legs in the air like a child in the middle of a temper tantrum after being denied his favorite candy. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!” Screaming his single string of swears, his palms did little to muffle the sound, and the walls rattled with Jaimie’s neighbors pounding their fists in a threat of shutting him up. Pounding mixed with screaming, until Jaimie’s throat was raw and burning as he breathed, and the neighbor replaced their pounding with their own screaming.

Eventually the rawness of his throat which stung with every breath, and the erratic rise and fall of his chest tired him out. His legs dangled limp over the edge of the couch, feeling as if he was going to explode from a fit of emotions that he couldn’t quite understand; from the repression of a fifteen year old mind that couldn’t cope with that just months ago, although it had really been years ago, he was a student in highschool worrying about classes. 

How much longer could he pretend that everything was fine? How much longer until the mask started slipping, until he started slipping up? Maybe he should go back to keeping his mouth shut, let Johnny do all the talking, but it’s not like him and Johnny were talking much lately. 

Jaimie clawed at his shirt, folding the collar over itself then pulling at in a variety of different angles. He twisted the fabric underneath his thumb, squeezed his eyes shut tightly and pulling the opposite of his hands until his breath escaped him and the fine fabric of his shirt dug a soft line across his adam's apple. 

He couldn’t feel anything, rather he didn’t want to feel anything, the pressure building in his chest was inescapable. If he didn’t do it to himself then some passing feeling would: so what was the point? Somewhere in the midst of anguish his phone fell to the floor with a dull thud, unnoticed as Jaimie wriggled on the couch in a self-pitied fight to either let himself breathe or keep the pressure until his lips turned cold and he fell unconscious. A clouded mind hooked his ankles together, pressing until the pressure of throbbing ankles hurt him more than his own strangulation. Black and yellow spots bloomed underneath his eyelids, sickening in comparison to the red abyss. He began sobbing, aquamarine tears rolled down his cheeks in fine lines which kissed a wet trail down his neck until they were caught midway in the fabric wrapped around. Wet cheeks with lungs too dry, his lungs threatening to burst with each passing moment until soft fingers interlocked with his own and pulled to loosen his hold.

Hands that were less damaged than his own, hands that hadn’t been used to punch a man to death or anything else that would be unsavory to think about with those hands touching you. 

The moment air floods into his lungs his chest tightens with a breed of anger that only breached the surface when one didn’t want to die but they didn’t want to be saved either. Eyes shoot open wide, blotches of yellow and black slowly begin to fade to purple while hands attempted to wrestle him away from strangling himself. Deft fingers wrapped around his wrists, his palms splayed awkwardly against the solid mass of a chest, he pressed and pinched in an attempt of recognition, of drawing himself back from purple spotted vision and chest pain.

“Boss,” Jaimie was vaguely aware of it: the voice accompanied by warmth breath against the shell of his ear, the shiver of a title and the hiss of an s from a mouth whose voice were like honey to him. Carlos. 

Oh god, it was Carlos. Carlos saw him like this; already a pathetic excuse of a gang leader. Why had Carlos come? He couldn’t quite recall, on the tip of his tongue really, before he pieced together the fact that it felt too early for the man to be in the apartment. 

Whatever struggle he had thought to attempt died, the hold on Carlos’ chest became tighter, refusing to release even a hint of a familiarity: sometimes at night he thinks he remembers Carlos in the prison, he remembers that voice and the overbearing weight of a hovering presence, curiosity in every tongue slapping syllable. Carlos positions himself on top of Jaimie, using his own weight to pin him encase The Boss attempted to wrap his hands around his throat. 

Tear blurred vision passed, letting Jaimie see Carlos above him, near radioactive eyes take in details that had become obscure both in thought and vision. Concern creases in lines, a fear in his eyes that Jaimie’s seen before and knows by name, lips quirked downwards. A mantra of “Boss, boss, boss,” falling from the others lips to pull him back followed by the more personal. A name shared along with an awkward kiss and a beanie pulled over his face, “Jaimie, Jaimie, Jaimie.” Repeated over and over until Jaimie can blink without blooming spots, until he’s stopped clawing at Carlos and rather pressed his palms flat against his chest. Where the grip Carlos had on his wrist becomes one not of stopping an attack but a gentle caress of solid fingers with their pads pressed against the underside of his wrist, memorizing each warm beat of the erratic pulse beneath.

“Carlos,” he closed his eyes again.

“Boss.”

Carlos leaned down, resting his chin on Jaimie’s shoulder, and Jaimie wiggled beneath him just a bit until Carlos’ leg was slotted between his own. He wiggled his hands, trapped beneath their chests, and thankfully Carlos got the hint. He released his hold then wrapped an arm around Jaimie’s neck to, the other supporting his head, fingers curling in the mess of brown locks. Jaimie freed one arm and wrapped it around Carlos’ waist, holding tightly to the back of his shirt, then buried his face into the crook of the others neck. 

Everything about himself felt cold; wet from tears, shaking from the oxygen depravation. Carlos was certainly more welcoming, everything about him was so: the scratch of his shirt collar, the heavy smell of cheap cologne and even cheaper soap. Chest flushed at an awkward and back paining angle, Jaimie could feel the other's muscles quiver at the tension of supporting both of them, and by that time Jaimie had lost the feeling in his legs, replaced with imagined ants crawling up and down his legs.

Of course he didn’t suggest for either of them to detangle from one another or remove themselves from the couch. Even if Jaimie was shaking like a drowned rat. Even if Carlos was holding his shaking Boss, tight and intimate, his own cheek and a bit of his ear wet from Jaimie’s fresh tears. He may as well be a drowned rat, with all the secrets that he’s keeping. 

“Carlos,” Jaimie muttered his name with a shaky breath, only now removing himself from the man. “Would you, get off? You’re-- you’re seriously fucking squishing me.” His hands fell to either side of him, one landed with a dull thump on the couch, the other hung limply off the couch where scraped knuckles brushed the carpet. 

Carlos, with little more than a nod, sat up and detangled himself, landing onto the carpet with a small grunt. “You good, Boss?” Warily he looked over at Jaimie; watching as his Boss forced himself into a sitting position, pushing down his shirt and straightening the color. A shiver ran its course down Jaimie’s spine, fingers ghosting over the red mark across his neck.

He really was pathetic. 

“You’re early, Carlos. Though I said midnight.”

“It is midnight, Boss.”

“Bullshit, give me my phone.” Carlos snagged the phone from under the couch, having kicked it there in a hurry to … help. One look at the time was all it took the shut him up, far better than a thousand words ever could. It was midnight, but frankly Jaimie didn’t remember falling asleep, and the fact time passed by quickly without his knowledge frightened him. He stared down at his lap, then forced his attention to Carlos’ shoes, giving a small smile as the man nudged him over and flopped onto the couch. “Well, fuck me. You actually came on time. You still have the key?” 

“Door wasn’t locked, Boss. You really should lock your doors, ‘specially with your neighbors.” Carlos chuckled lightly, bumping his and Jaimie’s shoulders. 

“It’s … well, it’s usually locked. Just forgot, is all. Had a busy day and shit, so fuck off.” Despite the circumstances, his words were lighter than what he meant, looking to Carlos with a smile. In truth, he was incredibly happy that the other had arrived when he had, and didn’t believe himself capable of spending a night alone regardless if he had choked himself out or not. 

He hadn’t wanted to spend the night alone, but he knew he wouldn’t have been able to spend a night with Shogo. 

“You wouldn’t fucking believe how hard it is to get stupid guns shipped where they gotta’ be, Carlos. The fuck do I look like to the Saints, a businessman?” He snorted, leaning against Carlos, practically melting when he responded by wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling them even closer. 

“You’re the shittiest businessman that I know. You get fired from Ultor or something?”

“Oh, fuck you Carlos. Ultor wouldn’ even hire me. They’d make me cut my hair, too, or some other bullshit.” Jaimie closed his eyes, resting his head against Carlos own covered one. Damn, he really loved that beanie, didn’t he? Jaimie turned, burying half of his face in it. “You ever take this off? You shower with it on? Those are real questions, I gotta the need to know, Carlos.”

“Why do you want to know, do I smell bad?” Carlos slowly trailed his fingers up and down Jaimie’s arm, making small circles around the base of his elbow, before bringing his featherlight touch upwards. It really was soothing. 

“Nah,” Jaimie pressed a kissed to the side of his head, covered by that stupid purple hat, the grin on his face betrayed the narrative as Carlos rolled his eyes. “Smells worn and shit, but it ain’t smellin’ bad.” Jaimie yawned, placing a hand on Carlos’ thigh, giving it a soft squeeze. “Do you have one of those hats, or is it like fifty of the same hat?”

“Shit, Boss. How rich do you think I am? I was in prison when I met you, you think they’d let me keep fifty of the same hat? ‘Was a fucking challenge to keep the one.” Carlos jabbed, turning his head just slight enough to press a kiss on Jaimie’s forehead, nose twitching to suppress a sneeze from the fluff of brown hair. The Boss could certainly do with a hat, maybe he’d buy him one soon. 

“I’m thinkin’ they didn’t know, and you just had some big bitch smuggle in hats for you.” He mumbled, voice thick and heavy with sleep. She’d kissed his eyelids already, practically plastered shut, he didn’t dare open them. 

“You know you don’t know anything about prison, Boss.”

“I know.” Jaimie curled his fingers around Carlos’ forearm, holding onto him.

“I l--” It became obvious that Carlos wasn’t going to get a response, turning his head to watch Jaimie slump further into the couch. Basically a ragdoll against his body, he sighed softly, stretching out his legs in resignation of staying there the whole night. 

Wasn’t bad, though.


	6. Crying

It has been a week of hell for Jaimie Lian. A week of the should and shouldn’t haves with the Third Street Saints, followed closely by a chorus song of regrets on choked back, wet cheek and snot nosed sobbing.

For the Boss, it has been a week of the stench of fatty pork and musky, sweet perfume clung to pants and shoes in invisible tendrils of brutality. No washing could clean away the stench and he could not force himself to do another load of laundry, he had barely done the first, and now clothes lay abandoned in the dryer. He’s fortunate the beeping stopped or at least the dryer was, the Boss had half the mind to shoot the damn thing after the third long continuous beep. 

The apartment, his apartment, given to him to him by Johnny Gat, bought in a time where he, as Playa, wouldn’t have even opened his mouth to answer a question; let alone tell the world, the Saints, that he couldn’t do what they needed to do because he was fifteen and had an algebra test in the morning. The apartment had nearly paid for his silence, but his silence, in retrospect, had been more influenced by the potential of friendship and a father. Julius had disappointed him in more ways than needed and left him once again in the disposition of fatherless and voiceless. He could not tell a single Saint about Shogo, nor his fears, anymore than he could look Johnny Gat in the eyes and tell him he was some disgusted, depraved homosexual. 

Which is exactly why the apartment, which had bought his silence, held the smell of beer and blood. Jaimie Lian saw the apartment as a safe space he could use to hide away, going to the extent of tossing away his phone into a randomly selected cardboard box. The smallest one that he could find that was filled with old shirts he couldn’t wear anymore, the discarded clothing serving a better purpose of muffling the buzz of missed calls and incoming messages until the battery died. The Boss saw the apartment as an opportunity for a strategic retreat, drawing down and taping the blinds closed with electrical tape -- it had taken an hour, the tips of his fingers were rubbed raw and his nails were splattered in pants fiber from shoving his hands deep within the confines of his pockets to simply stop fidgeting. Jaimies’ hands fidgeted because he was sat in a dolor, The Boss’ hands fidgeted because he was nervous. The same hands, with different reasons to fidget, held tight to a couch cushion that smelt a little less like cheap soap and even cheaper cologne with every sob. He hasn’t had the thought that he shouldn’t keep crying on the cushion, that if he continues to cry eventually the scent will be gone and he will have nothing left to cling to. In retrospect, he’ll be curious why smell is what those in grief often cling to, he’s done a bit of reading in psychology and knows that smells are capable of making the mind recall and bring memories to the conscious forefront of thought.

It was his fault Carlos Mendoza, a lieutenant who may have not stood a chance, who did remind The Boss too much of himself before the explosion, was dead. So -- Why not cry until his smell left that couch cushion? Jaimie’s fingers curled tight around the pillow as he attempted to pull it closer to his chest, it’s as close as it will ever be unless he takes the unsound idea to shove it underneath his vest and short sleeved work shirt: purple and black, he’s not sure how Shogo hasn’t figured out he’s The Boss, but this wasn’t about Shogo. For now, at least, the moment was about the Brotherhood; about Jessica and her boyfriend, whose face was marred with nuclear waste, his skin decorated in dark tendrils interwoven in a blotch like a burned book, the mapping reached the edges of older tattoos. Maero with his shitty fucking deal, having the audacity to offer The Boss less than half the city on account he had missed its progress, on account a coma had forced him out of commission and stripped away years of childhood Julius and the Third Street Saints had been slowly sucking away. Really, if the mind were to be believed, this was about his own stupidity in pushing Carlos in the same way that Julius had with himself. 

Was he going to become like Julius Little had? To steal every aspect of himself from others? The question went unasked, and unanswered, if he had ever forced himself onto Carlos. 

The idea disgusted him, had his insides coiling and a swell of fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, the crusted snot underneath his nose and smeared along his left cheek is wet again. If he cared he would have cleaned his face but he deserved to appear as disgusting as he felt. His grip on the cushion slackened with Jaimie having half the thought to throw it out the window, let it get run over by a car or dragged off by some dog, letting his damn conscious be cleaned, but instead he dabbed the corner of the cushion against his cheek to mop the tears and crusted snot up. He’s surprised he can still cry, it’s been ten hours since he shot Carlos Mendoza in the head like he was some dog that had to be put down because it ripped a chunk of flesh from a child's shoulder; it hadn’t been the dogs fault, the neglectful parent should have kept a better eye on both the dog and child. If anyone was the dog it was Maero.

Jaimie brought the cushion up under his chin using it to support his head as he collapsed onto his side, tucking his knees against his chest as well as underneath the cushion, attempting to curl in on himself. A little past noon his phone had stopped ringing, no longer could Jaimie hear the muffled tones of some obscure Chinese rap group -- he had found their music from a video game, liked it enough to pirate their music off of some Russian website that, as Carlos had said, he was lucky enough not to get viruses from. How many memories were going to be tarnished by what he had done to Carlos? Every spec of them seemed to be tarnished, dirtied beyond cleansing, Jaimie would have to bleach his brain and even that would not be enough.

He was too damaged, he was too broken. He was a liar. A bastard. A queer and a million other things that would surely have him rotting in hell.

Jaimies’ fingers twitched against the cushion now beginning to rub small circles against the coarse fabric with the pad of his thumb. His tears have long since stopped rolling down his cheek, it happened somewhere between his overbearing thoughts and the realization that he was more than just tired, and instead of tears there was nothing but a yellowish goo crusting in the corner of his eyes. He sniffled, a sob escaped his lips although there were no tears that would shed, they certainly should have been shed for Carlos Mendoza as it seemed almost cruel that his body could no longer make tears because the internal numbness of loss had yet to leave him. He was still numb. It is a strange thing to see yourself be murdered and know that it was yourself who did it, even if it was the tiniest fraction of Jaimie Lian found in Carlos Mendoza that had been blown away. There was not much he wanted to do but many things that he could do and that he should be doing beyond sulking in his room, laying flat on his side, cheeks wet and crusted, clutching pathetically to a couch cushion as if it were a piece of Carlos Mendoza. He should get up. He should strike against the Brotherhood and get over death, charge his fucking phone then smash Jessica’s face in like he knew that he was capable of. 

Death happened all the time, so why couldn’t he move on from this? He knew why. All the lies, all the cheating, the emptiness of a promise, the fact that he was just some dirty kid who wanted to suck Johnny Gat’s cock and has truly figured out but couldn’t accept his feelings for Shogo Akuji. 

It was just too much. Jaimie could not cry anymore nor could he force himself to leave the bed and the cushion behind. He just couldn’t. Instead he forced his eyes shut, his eyelids feeling far too heavy and raw, deciding that it would do better to sleep and fill himself with the false hope that he wouldn’t wake up, or that everything would be fine and Carlos wasn’t dead and he wasn’t attracted to Johnny or screwing Shogo, than to continue staring blankly at the wall waiting for someone to kick in the door and drag him away. 

When he falls asleep it takes but a moment for him to bury his face into the cushion, curling in tighter on himself as well as his six-foot-seven-inch body could achieve, though he was quite limber and folded quite nicely. 

_There is a dragon at the foot of his bed. It shone brightly, almost blindingly to Jaimie who attempted to blink away the pain; it was almost like when he was a child, staring up at the sun in awe only to strain his strange, strange eyes. The scales of the dragon where a magnificent golden hue, every breath of the dragon caused the scales to ripple, cascading over one another like a waterfall, rolling off the beast and pooling at its feet. Jaimie reached forward slowly, each breath he took matched the dragons to the exhale, his hands too steady for the circumstances. His hands were always too steady in the wrong situations. Near radioactive cat eyes flickered to meet the beasts, they are crystalline eyes of a brilliant shade of purple that remind Jaimie too much of the Saints purple. He’s frozen in place, staring at this dragon while it’s scales roll off and continue to pool at its feet, on his bed and the carpet below. “Why?” his voice is hollow, empty of everything, the diluted accent of a Chinese immigrant in Michigan is gone, leaving behind generic sounds to a painful question. The beast turned its head away to look out the window, although he is nearly frozen with fear, the tips of his fingers seem colder the longer they stay outstretched for the strange beast, Jaimie follows the gaze of the beast to peer out the window._

_It was storming outside. Rain slapped against the window, Jaimie couldn’t even see the dust and scum that usually collected in the corners, he cleaned them the day he got back and he hadn’t cleaned them since. “What do you want me to see?” He can’t see anything past the rain, he couldn’t even see the rain beyond the droplets on the window. Outside was grey, just a nothingness that seemed to envelop all. That grey haze could have been the reason he couldn’t see the rain unless it hit the window, there wasn’t any lightning either, but Jaimie could feel it. Always sensitive to the rain, his shoulders slumped as he attempted to make himself smaller, his bones ached. “There’s nothing to see. Stop making me look!” He demanded the dragon to release him, to let him look away, to focus on anything but the rain and grey haze. “Stop it!” The beast turned its head again reestablishing eye contact with Jaimie. Jaimie wanted to punch it, to smash its head, to squeeze its head between his palms until it popped like a grape. He wanted to but he didn’t -- he couldn’t. His hand fell into a pile of the scales and he felt like he was on fire. His skin blistered, turning an angry and violent red as the flesh on his fingers curled and tightened to a silky black, no matter the pain Jaimie couldn’t move his hand away. He screeched, screamed, jaw hung loose and open. A blood curling scream, a blood boiling scream, his blood was literally boiling in his veins. It hurt. It hurt just like the explosion had, he could have handled the burnt hair and tainted flesh, could have handled the bomb and its explosion, he handled none of it because of Julius. Julius wasn’t here now, Julius wasn’t forcing his hand against the molten scales that covered his hand and burned through it, near perfect tear dropped holes burned into a stretched tight blackened hand. “Please,” he sobbed, unsure of when he had stopped screaming, unsure if it was the dragon making him beg to be released or his own willpower. Jaimie doubted that it was the latter._

_It felt like an eternity of pain before the dragon whipped its head around, opening its mouth and unhinging its jaw much like a snake before it engulfed Jaimie’s hand. There wasn’t a need to scream. The instant relief of a cold tongue and cheek across burning flesh was a high that Jaimie would never be able to find again or even chase with drugs or alcohol because it would be impossible. He remembered vaguely what the hospital had been like, the moments where he had been fighting for consciousness, it had been near impossible for a fifteen year old, the injections of morphine had not helped to keep him from a comatose. Morphine was no where as intoxicating as this, the dragons cold wet tongue sliding between his fingers with an undeserved attentiveness. Jaimie rocked back and sat on his heels watching with wide eyes as the dragon continued to swallow down his hand, a golden mouth inching itself up his arm. Jaimie could feel the throb of its insides as it swallowed around his fingers, farther and farther until the beast’s nostrils flared and brushed against his ears. “Let me go.” He can feel, with just the tips of his fingers, something soft and papery. He knows what the dragon wants, he knows what he wants to do. “I won’t.” The dragon’s nostrils flared, it’s mouth inched even further until its jaw was set pressed against Jaimie’s armpit and his fingers were between soft, wet petals. “I won’t.” His fingers curled around the bulb, the dragon's throat pulsed against his arm. “I won’t.” Jaimie held tightly to the flower while the dragon slowly pulled itself off of Jaimie’s arm, its mouth hung open to allow the flower to be pulled from its gullet. A a white lotus with its petals wrapped around a burnt hand, its roots squirmed like intestine as the dragon pulled back. “I didn’t mean to.”_

_The dragon’s purple crystalline eyes dripped thick black tears, Jaimie stared with wide eyes. He blinked and the lotus roots where veins, the lotus was a heart in his hands, and his arm was coated thickly in substance as dark as tar. He screamed and threw himself backwards in an attempt to scramble away from the beast, sending a shower of golden scales tumbling to the floor and ripping the thumping heart from its veins. He blinked again, the heart was no longer a heart, back to a white lotus held in his hand with its petals wrapped. “I hadn’t meant to,” he pleaded to what he thought had no ability to reason, chest rising and falling, body shaking with each crack of imagined thunder. The storm outside picked up, the wind whipped wildly and the rain began to crack the window as it landed, Jaimie kept his eyes on the dragon hacking up the roots of the lotus flower. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sorry became a mantra to him as the dragon continued hacking long after the roots had fallen to the ground among the scales, the scales that had never stopped cascading off the dragon's body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He repeated as the beast turned its head it’s crystalline eyes narrowed in ire. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said as the dragon lunge towards him sending cascading scales into the air, scales scattered both on the floor and his body, burning tear drops against his flesh. It’s claws dug into his chest, cold like icicles, they impaled him smooth with no resistance, as if there was no bones in his body or thickened muscle to resist, and released thick spurts of purple blood. He squirmed, body thrashing from side the side, the beast opened its mouth and Jaimie stared at the gaping maw. He tried to shove the lotus back down its throat, he tried to raise a fist and punch the dragon in the side of his head, but both arms stayed outstretched on either side of the dragons cold body, the lotus flower wrapped tighter around his fingers.The dragon ripped apart his chest, tore him into shreds like a fine ribbon, and it plunged its head into the ribbon that Jaimie had become and ripped free his own beating heart. There is no feeling as he watches with wide, wide eyes-- that was not his heart, his heart was not a lotus flower and his heart was not tainted with purple blood. The dragon devoured his heart quickly while keeping its crystalline eyes on his ribbon shredded body._

_Why wasn’t he dead yet?_

Jaimie awoke with a pounding heart, fear and adrenaline had him flailing out of his bed, couch cushion long forgotten in favor of holding bo hands over his heart. He gasped with air greedily eyes too wide with fear as he looked around the apartment -- familiar but completely alien to him, within the vice grip of fear he wanted nothing more than to be in Shogo’s home wrapped in sheets more expensive than they were soft. His chest hurt to the point that he became afraid he’s having a heart attack, the erratic palpitations weren’t slowing themselves, and he searched his mind for any comment his mother may have made about the Lian family health. Nothing, nothing, nothing. There was nothing in his mind that he could find to use as a scapegoat, leaving him to face the reality that emotions could get a vice grip on the heart. 

He getting up off the bed, joints aching from having been folded for so long. As he shambled into the living room Jaimie kept a hand over his heart, feeling each beat against his palm as he went to retrieve his long dead cell phone. Where the fuck was the charger? Moving to the kitchen he spots the charger plugged into a socket that Jaimie’s pretty sure it should have blown out by now, but he’s not going to complain once he’s plugged his phone into the charger. He stares blankly at the screen coming to life, the slow pulsing charge of bars being filled. It’s nearly mesmerizing, utterly ruined by the notification of missed calls and ignored texts. “Fuck.” He’s tempted to throw the phone out the window, watch it smash then grab his baseball bat and beat it further. 

Take a piece and shoot it like he did Carlos. 

There were, in Jaimie’s mind, too many things that could go wrong if he responded to anything. Any call could end abruptly, pissed off at Jaimie or The Boss for vanishing, could have ended with Jaimie feeling even more pathetic than he did. Wasn’t he supposed to be a near mindless, heartless killing machine? How else could people kill other people with little to no thought about the aftermath. How else could someone lie to who they considered their lover. He had to be the monster, because if he wasn’t then the world was terrifying. 

Jaimie idly thumbs through messages, barely glancing at each one before moving to the next, he hadn’t wanted to read them at all. He just couldn’t stand that they went unread as an ode to how he had been ignoring the world. It really was annoying, nearing tedious, that he had these obligations towards men and women he would have never met without Julius, Troy, and Dex. Johnny, too, but he didn’t want to think about Johnny while looking at his texts. Maybe he should call Aisha, she was probably worrying about him, or at least annoyed with the shit Johnny would be complaining about since The Boss just vanished. Left the hideout, locked his apartment doors; left himself crying in his room, only ever falling silent when he could have sworn there was someone lingering outside the door and even then Jaimie hadn’t known if there really was someone there or if he had been imagining it to give himself a break from the tears. He doesn’t want to apologize for it but he knows that he will. The moment he would see Johnny or Shogo’s face would be the moment he’ll spend countless minutes apologizing profusely for vanishing, then he’ll bash in a few heads or suck a cock. 

Jaimie ran a hand over his arm, tapping his fingers gently against his bicep. God, he felt disgusting. Even his mess of brown hair, known for its silken fluff, was flat and oily. He should take a shower or at least run his head under the facet for a few minute, just long enough to scrub away the grim. He sighed, running fingers through his hair and scratching at his scalp, dead skin caught underneath his nails and Jaimie set on picking out the skin while he debated on showering or not. His tongue playing between the gap in his teeth, lost the tooth in some stupid fight when he was thirteen. 

Every movement is mechanical, Jaimie doesn’t register he’s walking to the bathroom until he’s flipped on the switch to the bathroom and his hand is testing the water-- the water’s a little brown, Shogo called a plumber when he saw it, the plumber said the buildings pipes were rusted or was it the water main? Everything would have to be stripped and replaced if Jaimie wanted not brown tinted water, but the water was fine, just slightly discolored. Jaimie splashes the water against the ceramic tub. Each splattering of the water against the ceramic tub was pleasant, solid drops of water that sent droplets along his arm. It almost sounded like gunshots, when Jaimie was Playa and he was shaking scared in the apartment bed because he was certain somebody was going to shoot his apartment up, some Vice King or the Rollerz, and when he heard gunshots or tires on the tarmac outside he’d shove his head underneath a pillow and press down over his ears. The world became muffled and through each BANG he found himself falling asleep. He had been distilled almost to jelly as Playa. 

Jaimie stripped quickly, balling and tossing his clothes into the sink before stepping into the shower that may have been a little too hot than needed. The near scalding hot water rolled off his back and loosened the tension built in his shoulders. Jaimie turns his face to the faucet, tilting his head down to let his mop of hair be plastered against his skull, fingers quickly reaching out to collect the orange scented shampoo he had bought from some obscure Japanese website a little less than a week ago. Jaimie was nearly out of it, the smell of oranges was pleasant, far better than strawberries during the current fiasco of his life, and he had the tendency to stress wash. His mother had always chided him for that, it was a shame that she wasn’t around to tell him to stop washing so often, to open her arms and hold him close and scare away everything that he was afraid of. Even she would have been a better Boss than he was, but she thought he was dead, and the near scalding hot water hid his tears as he sobbed. Great, big heavy shakes of his shoulder as he sobbed. 

Jaimie sobbed as he finished showering, refreshed and skin smelling of oranges. He sobbed as he dried himself off with a towel that was too short, one that had lost it’s fluff in a few meager months. Sobbed as he wandered back to his room, a towel wrapped tight around his waist, water dripping from his hair across his shoulders in a glistening, forgotten spatter. He sobbed even as he dressed into a pair of basic denim jeans, the back pockets had a faded purple bandana printing on them, and a pastel crop top with faded words that Jaimie couldn’t remember-- it had been his mother’s once. 

He runs a hand through his hair once dressed, smoothing down the wet locks and then ruffling them. Returning to the kitchen, Jaimie tugged at the edge of his crop top, scooping up his phone and pulling it free of the charger. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t be doing it, but he couldn’t see Aisha’s face without wanting to spill everything he’s done-- he couldn’t see the Saints without the guilt in his heart making him want to die. Jaimie pulls up his contacts before he could think better of it.

“Hey, you busy? Oh cool, I’ll be over in a bit.”


End file.
